


The Coffee Shop on the Corner of Diagon

by jlpierre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee Shops, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Flirting, Good Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-10-17 15:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17563502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlpierre/pseuds/jlpierre
Summary: When Hermione Granger gets a job at a coffee shop to appease her university professor, she does not expect to bump into Draco Malfoy, never mind spill a drink on him.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to VioletBehaviour and LeanaM for beta'ing and alpha'ing. 
> 
> This is a reposted (and edited) fanfiction that I took down from an old account after dealing with my mental health.  
> There is no scheduling update, but I will not abandon.

i.

* * *

 

Draco grit his teeth as his phone buzzed for the tenth time in a minute. His fingers were furiously typing, but apparently not fast enough for Pansy and her _mid-afternoon_ breakdown. It had been the worst possible decision he had ever made to go into business with her. If 'go into business' meant handing her the start-up cost and have no say in any of the dealings of the shoe company that would ' _take the world by storm'_ —Draco despised her optimism.

He was so lost in texting, Draco only narrowly managed to avoid walking into a pedestrian—who happened to be one rude individual. Really, calling him a _cunt_ just because he elbowed him _slightly_ , if Draco's hands weren't busy gripping his phone he'd have demonstrated exactly how he had felt about that sort of language so early in the morning. Admittedly, Draco was _not_ able to focus on texting and insulting at once because Draco was _still_ sleep deprived. Between studying for a business degree, running an online business's, helping Moody to run his business, _and_ having a social life, he had found little time to sleep; he never usually found sleep deprivation a problem, having fallen in love with a lady that always saved him: _his coffee machine._

This morning, however, his _beloved_ lady had broken down on him. She wouldn't communicate her issues, instead, expecting him to be able to read minds—or, the incessant beeping. When she then burst her fuse after he had pushed every button available, Draco surrendered and began his _out-of-the-way_ trek to find the only _elixir_ that would save him, from the very place he didn't want to go.

While, admittedly, it was barely peak time, the streets were already ridiculously busy. Diagon Alley was one place that no one could ever predict, and this morning the square happened to be so packed with people, Draco had been forced to wonder if someone was handing out free money. His attention was however claimed before he found out, his phone buzzing again, receiving _yet_ another text to add to the abundance he had already been unable to reply too.

It was then that Draco lost the last string of sanity.

His fingers pressed down on the screen so hard, Draco was surprised it didn't crack under the pressure, his typing was so quick, Draco didn't even care if he made typos—something that usually drove him up the wall. It wasn't _hard_ to be coherent, and he didn't even want to get started on text-talk.

Draco's tongue stuck out, shoulder barging past people, not looking up as he furiously clicked letters, not caring if he came across as rude because he had every intention of being just that—rude.

> **D: you know what, do what the fuq you like, pans. malfoy out.**

Once he clicked that blue button, his mind conjuring the sound of a text whirring away, he shoved his phone into his back pocket, yanking open the door of the coffee shop.

If he had needed coffee before, it was at a desperation level now. Even the scent of coffee beans jolted him, making him somewhat feel alive—having missed the smell, even if this particular place annoyed him more than his flat. The crunching of the machine as it ground beans called out to him, trying to awaken his senses, like birds singing in a fairytale. Taking the deepest inhale, getting every various flavour into his body as he softly began to relax, Draco joined the back of the very small queue.

It disappointed him that he couldn't see who was serving today—not at all remembering the rota, even if he had been the one to help Moody with creating it. Working around various other members of staff and their various other commitments was so taxing, Draco was sure that was how he found himself with a coffee addiction to begin with. He hadn't grown up drinking coffee, and even his mother scrunched her nose at the knowledge he had moved away from tea leaves and breakfast tea.

Today, it seemed, was the first day of their latest employee, and Draco tried not to be aggravated that _he_ would _have_ to taste what _they_ made. All he could see from his place was someone small in height with out of control hair that their hat _apparently_ couldn't contain. They suddenly turned, greeting the next customer, and Draco sighed at the ordinary woman beneath all the hair. She happened to be sporting an expression of someone who had no clue what they were doing—but tried to pretend they did—mixed with an attempted mask of stress anyone and everyone in retail wore. Draco tried not to think negatively immediately; tried to think positive before thinking the worst, but when she dropped a ready-made drink down herself, he lost all hope.

He _couldn't_ walk away—even if he genuinely wanted to. He _needed_ a cup of coffee, he wanted a quick fix because, without it, there was no way he'd be able to keep up during his lectures without it. When his phone buzzed _again_ , he whipped it from his pocket—somewhat thankful for the distraction— until he witnessed his roommate's name at the top of their messenger chat.

> **HP: Parkinson is here**
> 
> **DM: Cool.**
> 
> **HP : Are you coming back?  
> ** **HP: I wish you'd stop being a knob and give me your number, I know you've turned calls off on messenger.**

Draco smirked at his own intelligence, somewhat enjoying making life difficult for his roommate —without him even being there.

> **DM: Sharing of numbers are for friends. We are not friends, Potter.  
> ** **DM: No, I am not coming back. Have fun with the She-Hag**

" _Next_!"

Draco looked up, clicking the back button on his phone and locking the screen as he met the eyes of the woman who would be serving him today. The same woman he had no input in hiring, even though he helped with everything else; the same woman who was about to meet _hell_ if she fucked this up. Smirking, which Draco could never help, especially when this woman looked _positively_ pissed off.

"Hm..." Draco muttered.

Her hair began to grow further and further out, each curl frizzing at the end. He wondered what it would take to make her hair explode out of her hat; as his eyes scanned the menu—even if he knew it off by heart—he heard her clear her throat.

" _Sir_?" She asked rudely, missing the niceness that usually came with ' _Diagon Coffee Corner_ ' coffees.

Smirking, which Draco couldn't help if he tried, he tapped his foot on the floor. "Oh, I'm just thinking, hmm, what to order, _what_ to order..."

_The Woman_ , her name badge hidden by the drink stain from earlier, crossed her arms and huffed. "Sir, _there's_ a line."

Draco purposefully looked over his shoulder, finding one person behind him—and they honestly didn't look like they were even on the planet anyway, never mind interested in actually enjoying a coffee.

Scoffing, he shrugged. "So there is."

Her eyes narrowed to slits, and Draco suspected that if she weren't on the other side of the counter, she'd be giving him her two pence or possible punching him in the face. Although, if she did, it would give him enough of an excuse to ask Moody to fire her. To be honest, he was a little disappointed he wouldn't be able to rub salt in the know-it-all's face—she just looked like she was—that _he_ was one of the coffeeshops best customers. He really wanted to, it took a lot to bite it back.

"Fine, _vanilla_ latte, _large, soy with a dash of caramel,_ and a croissant," Draco answered, finding his usual would possibly be enough to send her over the edge.

The woman slid her till card, and he caught her surname over the screen. _Granger_. Suddenly remembering Moody showing him her C.V now and how he had scoffed at the things she called ' _work experience'_.

"To take away?"

Draco smirked. "If that isn't _too_ much trouble."

Granger's lips stretched into a thin line, and his smirk only grew as he heard her brain whirl with insults. His phone buzzed again, stealing his attention from her as he grimaced.

> **HP: She won't leave.  
>  DM: Yeah she does that. Just leave out a bowl of water and some kibble.**

Draco looked up to see the barista's back was to him, and he didn't and couldn't stop his eyes from travelling down. She may have hair like a _wildebeest_ , but her jeans did fit her _quite_ well.

> **HP: Malfoy, I'm serious.**

Biting down on his lip, Draco began to hit each letter on the keyboard with such determination he half-wished Potter could feel it on the other side.

> **DM: You're always serious, that's your fucking problem. Just kick her out, I've got a lecture.**

Looking up just in time to notice Granger's small, _but quick_ , tanned hand extending out to him with the white cup contrasting against her skin. Her eyes were hard and full of hatred, more so as he raised his brow and began to furrow with his wallet, having not been prepared at all. Granger noticed, and for good measure slapped the cup onto the counter, the echo of the base meeting the side puncturing the air.

"£5.30."

" _Please_?" Draco added, and Granger growled before smiling sweetly. "Fine, _here_ ," his fingers gesturing out with a five-pound note.

Granger snatched it. "And 30p?"

"I'm sure you can take that out of your tips, you know, for your _astounding_ manners," Draco snarled, snatching his cup. "Since my croissant isn't ready, I'll sit by the window."

Her mouth dropped open. "You _said—_ "

"Take out, because I will be _eventually_ taking this out, but for now, I don't wish to risk getting crumbs on my jumper—it's Prada, you know."

Draco turned on his heel, not allowing her the final word as he side-stepped past tables, making sure he sat with his back purposefully to her.

* * *

Hermione _hated_ him.

After a sea of rude people, the blond customer who-had-no-right to be rude, but was, happened to be the final straw. Yes, he could, and probably was, having a bad day, but that had very little to do with her, especially when _she_ was having her own problems.

This was her _first_ day, and she had been left alone because _according_ to Moody, " _Coffee ain't that hard to brew._ " She wished to point out the moment he had gone how bloody wrong he was, especially when her only prior experience was making cups of tea—that were never consumed—by patients in her parents' dental practise.

To make matters worse, Hermione had never even wanted the job. She had never wanted or expected to be needing a job while she was studying—but when her lecturer explained she needed _real-life_ experiences, she came up short with having any. She half-wished she hadn't picked Psychology, if she had chosen _business_ like she had applied to study, she'd be in her flat right now listening to Hamilton.

The final cherry on the top of her current life, coffee wasn't something Hermione even enjoyed drinking, but _apparently_ , tea shops were no longer a _thing_ of Diagon. Never in her right mind had she _ever_ wanted to drink a, ' _large three pump vanilla, half-caffeinated latte, with skimmed milk and chocolate sprinkles_ ," in her life, but the experience of making one had for sure put her off.

As soon as the blond had moved to the side, the _questionable_ man behind him came closer, asking her if he could use the bathroom—something she immediately said no to. When the coffee shop door closed, it left her and the _customer from hell_ ; her hand grabbing the forks to bag his croissant, heavily wanting to shove his pastry where the sun didn't shine.

She hated how impatient she was; how tired she felt under the layers of stress and expectations that had fallen on her shoulders—which she had put there. After Hogwarts College, when most decide to take a gap year, Hermione received a place at Diagon university, and she could _not_ turn it down. Her parents, of course, were over the moon and she couldn't let them down—she was their only daughter—she _had_ to do well. And since she cared what her professor thought, she couldn't also let him down, which was why she was here, in this _blasted_ coffee shop, hating her life and the decisions leading up to it.

Hermione stepped from behind the counter, the blond in her sight as she weaved her way through the tables; she was all set to slam the pastry down in front of him, when at the last second he twisted and _stood_.

It happened so slowly— so painfully slow—with both of them unable to halt.

Her brain screamed in her head as she felt the cup hit her breasts, his handle on it loose as it wobbled in his grip; her eyes watched as it twisted in the air, the lid popping off as the brown liquid exploded out like a burst water pipe. Hermione prayed it only hit her—having remembered his comment earlier about Prada.

Of course, her hopes were dashed. The bottom edge of the cup hit the ground with a resounding pop, and the remaining liquid darted up, soaking him his trousers _and_ his stomach. It could only happen to her. These things always happened to her.

She wouldn't break even if she knew there was no way her boss would pay for anything to be dry-cleaned; Hermione also _refused_ to appear worried or fragile—because she was neither of those things. She was a strong, resilient woman, and this was a clear accident. He must be able to see it too, he must!

"You _fucking_ idiot!"

_Apparently not_ , Hermione groaned to herself.

"Do you not _look_ where you are going?" The blond hissed, his hands darting out, rubbing against the bottom of his jumper.

"Me?" Hermione hissed, forgetting the whole 'customer is always right' _bollocks_ she learnt on her training day. "Unless you have eyes in the back of your _ridiculous_ blond head, you didn't look where you were going."

The blond narrowed his eyes, twisting the fabric in his hand as liquid squeezed out onto the floor. "You'll pay for this. My father, he's a lawyer, and when he hears about this—"

"You mean, when he hears about his son's failing to look where he is going? That's what you mean right? I just want to be clear," Hermione interrupted, not folding like this man wanted her too.

He gritted his jaw, his eyes nearly bursting from their sockets as a vein began to appear on his forehead. "Where is Moody?"

Hermione placed his pastry, the one still in her hand, on the table beside them, her eyes not moving from him. "My _manager_ will be here in half an hour, if you wish to wait?"

_Please don't wait; please don't wait._

"Of course he fucking is," he snarled, still brushing the liquid down—as if it would even help. "Fine, in the meantime, another coffee. Granger."

Knowing she would have to clean up the floor, Hermione turned around before her mouth got her into any more trouble. Each step she called him a new insult, ranging from _fuck-muffin_ to a _blond-cunt-waffle_ until she reached the mop bucket. If only _he_ would go, at least _then_ she could clean up the mess without his eyes burning into her—just as they were doing right now.

He had to know it was an accident, and in a matter of minutes, logic would kick in and he'd apologise. It was clear she didn't go around _burning_ customers for the sake— _fuck, have I burned him? Did I even ask him?_

"Um, excuse me...Mr Blond-Coffee-Man?"

He turned his scrunched up face towards her, wearing a confused expression as though unsure she had _really_ just said that. If Hermione was truthful, she was a little surprised also—even for her current level of stress, it was beyond her character.

"It's _Malfoy_. My name."

If Hermione had already hated him, she suddenly hated him more. Of course, she'd have launched a coffee over Lucius Malfoy's son—the lawyer who had a 98% success rate and was all over the papers for his high-level cases. The same lawyer who had helped _sue_ Ron's families cafe; the same bastard who tried to get Ron's father, Arthur, fired from the council after he had already ruined the Weasley's livelihood.

"From that pale, _pathetic_ look on your face, I assume you've heard of my father," Malfoy snarled, and Hermione straightened herself as she met him dead in the eye. "What did you want, anyway?"

Hermione let out a held breath, unsure when she had forgotten to breathe. "Do you need the first aid kit?"

He chuckled lowly, using napkins to wipe down his trousers. "No. A _bloody_ coffee and a tea towel would be appreciated though," his tone laced with so much malice, Hermione knew it was meant to maim her—possibly make her cry. She wouldn't let it, she'd wait till she was home at least.

Nodding, Hermione quickly hurried behind the counter as she could hear her hair growing from the stress; her scalp was buzzing, her forehead sweating under his hard stare. She tried to find her breath, tried to steady her raging pulse because Hermione _needed_ this job for her course. She couldn't risk a single moment in the opportunity she had been given, and this was a life experience. This right here with Malfoy, it was something she could learn from, something she could possibly use in a case study of some sort.

Hermione also knew, she needed to apologise, and she hated apologising— especially for things that were _not_ her fault. Hermione slid out mop bucket from under the cabinet, reaching for the mop from the back area. _I don't want to apologise, not when I shouldn't have to._

She grabbed the tea towel, throwing it over her shoulder as she reached for a large cup, clanging the machine around as she emptied the crushed coffee out and replaced it. His eyes, Malfoy's were still staring at her—watching, waiting for her to fuck up.

Not today, she thought. Not again, anyway.

As the machine hissed and clanged, Hermione tried to calm herself, because she may not even need to worry. Alastor ' _Mad-Eye'_ Moody may see her side of things. It was doubtful though. Hermione still wasn't able to forget his bellowing voice screaming, ' _constant vigilance_ ', at her during training.

It was likely she was fucked, double, triple pumped fucked, unless she asked Malfoy to forgive her.

Which was doubtful, Malfoys were _not_ known for their generosity.

* * *

Hermione let herself sink into the small armchair, in the _small-ish_ shared flat, at the end of her first week of juggling a job and university. She didn't hate _this_ place, but she hated the lack of space.

Sharing with Ginny, Tonks _and Luna_ was like sharing with five other girls. The women had so much stuff it expelled out of their rooms into their joint living space—while Hermione managed to keep all of hers in her room. Ginny had grown up with an abundance of brothers, and never liked to be alone because of it—which meant Hermione was never alone, something she wished she had been informed of before she signed the contract. Every single second of peace was appreciated, and as she sighed gleefully, Hermione rested her head against the wall.

It hadn't been a _terrible_ day, but it had been second in line. While she didn't spill a drink, it seemed Malfoy was determined to _fuck_ her over, walking past the window every chance he got. Each time his silver eyes glistened, sharpening as they burned into her, Hermione would find her heart stopped. Each time he bent over in front of the shop door, she panicked at the thought of him coming inside. It happened _four_ times each day since their first meeting, and she got no better at recognising the fact he was taunting her.

Tonight, her patience was _very_ thin, and there weren't that many times Hermione had the patience to listen to Luna discuss how her new _boyfriend-not-boyfriend_ both pleased her as she described the ways he did. There were things Hermione wished she could unsee—or unhear—and most of those things involved Luna.

Hermione _wasn't_ jealous, no matter what Ginny said.

She _wasn't_. Jealousy implied she wasn't happy for Luna, when she was. So she couldn't be. She was not even a little jealous. Except, Hermione _had_ shattered Luna's favourite mug when she heard her moaning like a wanton-whore in the room next to the kitchen. And Hermione did feel extremely lonely—but that _wasn't_ jealousy, that was being a human, surely.

"Anyone home?"

Hermione groaned as peace shattered from all around her. She waited, wondering if she was silent enough, Ginny wouldn't know she was here.

"I can see your shoes, Hermione."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione crossed her arms. "In the living room."

No sooner than a few clunks of Ginny's heeled boots, Hermione found her friend stood in the doorway looking her over. " _Well_ , you look like you've had a _shit_ day."

Hermione snorted. "It _wasn't_ pleasant. There's a good chance I'm either going to either be sued or fired."

" _Bollocks_ ," Ginny laughed, turning on her heels as her long hair floated around her, "You're the nicest person I know. A bit _devious_ , but overall nice."

Hermione watched Ginny move into the kitchen—another thing Hermione hated, the _open_ plan. Rooms were meant to be walled off. She really didn't like that all of her furniture in one room; Hermione also hated that when she cooked salmon—or anything else fish based—the entire flat was engulfed in a smell Ginny branded ' _Umbridge-Muff_ ', an image no one needed of their Personal Tutor.

Ginny proceeded to slam around until a euphoric cheer came from her, and she turned to show Hermione what she had found. "Sambuca: _The saviour of all shit days_."

"I can't," Hermione groaned. "I have to study, _and_ I have another shift in…" her eyes glanced at her watch, "a few more hours."

Ginny smirked. "I'm hearing far too many _can't's_ and not enough _can's_."

She felt Ginny's glare go up and down her skin, and while usually, Hermione would feel some element of guilt for not socialising, tonight she didn't. She _wanted_ to be alone; she wanted to have her books all around her and make her day become something positive.

"If I get sued, no one else will employ me in Diagon. I'll have to work in Knockturn and—"

"—You don't even _need_ to work," Ginny argued. "Just because you were advised to live life—"

"—Professor Lupin specifically—"

"Just call him _Remus_ , for fuck sake," Ginny chastised. "We've seen him _bollock_ -naked after a night with Tonks, you can at least drop the Professor here. And, secondly, you _won't_ get sued. Did you kill someone?" Hermione shook her head. "Did you attempt to murder someone?" Hermione smirked but repeated shaking her head. "See, you're fine," Ginny smiled, uncapping the bottle.

Tapping her fingers on her thigh, counting each finger and focusing on a beat, Hermione fought to add anything else. Ginny was her best friend, but often, they _disagreed_.

Ginny was full of life and unafraid of anything, she had several—hot, Hermione's opinion—brothers to thank for that, with each one giving her skill that made Ginny the best person, in Hermione's opinion. Hermione, on the other hand, was opinionated, bossy, and a control freak at the best of times, and those were her better qualities. She also had a tendency to worry about things, especially rules and things out of her control, things that didn't even seem to register in Ginny's world.

Tired of keeping it in, finding the words were stuck on her tongue anyways, Hermione added, "I did burn a Malfoy though."

Ginny, who had been mid-drinking, froze, her eyes widened as she yanked the bottle from her lips. "No, _fucking_ , way. Tell me it was Lucius, he's a horrid bastard—Oo, no tell me it was his wife—she looks like she has been dipped in money."

Hermione shook her head. "Nope, their pushy arrogant son."

"The cute one? _Dragon_."

"Draco," Hermione laughed. "I did have to Google it myself though. It was a few days ago now, but he keeps walking past the window to remind me of his existence.

Ginny gritted her jaw. "Of course he _fucking_ does."

"So," Hermione sighed. "There we have it, the reason I'll now be sued and never able to find work."

Ginny slumped back into the chair, her eyes moving to the ceiling as she took another sip from the bottle. "Well, admittedly, that is an _awful_ day. On the plus side, Draco is really quite hot, so there's that. Least someone hot keeps walking past. He's blond right?" Hermione nodded. "He could be a dragon with me, blow fire on me and—"

"Ginny!"

Rolling her eyes, the redhead laughed. "Don't pretend like you haven't thought it, I know you aren't as innocent as you make out."

Hermione let her cheeks burn as she pressed her lips together, she wasn't saying anything.

* * *

 


	2. ii.

The last thing Draco wanted to do after spending an afternoon listening to Blaise discuss the various shades of blue, was listen to Pansy. Especially when he hadn't _exactly_ been able to have a break of any kind from either of them. Between investing in Pansy's business and hearing all about everything and anything he didn't care about, Draco had also managed to find himself in the midst of a dispatcher issue with his other fashion business— _Zalfoy's Suits_ : All Italian Made.

His head had been suffering from a permanent migraine since he decided to partner up with Pansy; the need for coffee had returned like a freight train at every waking moment he found one  _not_ in his hand. The _want_ smashed into him and reminding him just how fragile he was without it.

Draco knew going into business with another friend would be problematic, but of course, it hadn't deterred him. He had an axe to grind since he had finished college when his father had ' _informed'_ him that studying business at a ' _degree-level_ ' wouldn't be necessary because Draco wasn't ' _strong, brave, or gutsy enough_ ' for business.

His father and himself had been at loggerheads for years, and had it not been for Draco's mother, he wouldn't see the man at all. There was nothing but bitterness and hatred between them, neither being who the other wished the other to be. Draco had wanted a father who would support him; Lucius wanted a son who would want to go into law—continuing the family lineage of tricking and siding with whoever had the deepest pockets. It had been an insult to Lucius when Draco had rejected the offer of working alongside his father, and he had nearly been cut from his inheritance when he declined the offer of marrying an heiress by the name of Astoria.

He had moved out shortly after that, renting a flat he ultimately hoped Theo or Blaise would move into with—somehow, Draco ended up with Potter.

When Draco found his ears began to ring with an annoyingly high-pitched sound, he found his mood changed from an emotional-wreck to a raging-maniac in seconds. It quickly dawned on him he was going through caffeine withdrawals. He had been successful in resisting the coffee shop since meeting their latest employee, Granger, but by Saturday morning—when he had spent the entire Friday night arguing with Pansy about leather or fabric—he was at his wit's end.

All of this was worsened further when Draco had been woken by Potter's headboard banging into his wall, the _disgusting_ git. While he had no idea what screaming whore was on the other side, all Draco knew with confidence was if she didn't stop screaming, " _Harder, Potter, harder_ ," he'd barge in there and ram a pair of socks down her throat until she stopped. It was at this horrid thought Draco realised he had become exactly like his mother—except with coffee _instead_ of vodka.

Rising from his mattress, Draco crossed his fingers by his side as he dragged himself to his beloved coffee pod machine—who was still very much against him. On the final scream of the woman Potter was assaulting, Draco lost his grip on sense, and grabbed the head of Lady Pomfrey—the coffee pod machine—and dashed her into the wall to his left. The silence that blanketed him was suffocating, and after several pants for his breath, Draco realised what he had done.

A door behind him ripped open, and he knew from the staggering feet who it was, and Draco's anger began to resurface.

"Malfoy! You—what the _hell_ happened to Lady Pom—"

Draco raised his hand, hoping to silence his roommates' annoying, almost grating, voice, not quite ready to turn and see the lightning-scarred prick.

"If we _all_ know what's good for us," Draco began, his voice low, "we will not ask questions that are _spelt_ out for us."

Anyone else would have left him alone; they most definitely wouldn't have shuffled across the floor closer to him. But Potter, the brave, idiotic, fool—who was never scared of anything, never mind him—moved to stand beside him, assessing the damage.

Potter cleared his throat, and Draco visibly cracked his neck in annoyance. "You know, you're not poor or anything, why don't you _just_ _buy_ another Lady Pomfrey?" Draco didn't answer, biting the inside of his mouth as his shoulders began to sink at the water coming out of the machine over the flat floor. "Or you know, get a coffee from _Diagon's_?"

Draco turned his head, eyes narrowed and brow raised as he tried to display just how much he currently hated Potter, without using words. "Is your beeswax here, Potter?" Draco pretended to look around in mockery. "I don't see it, but since your nose is pressed into my business, I assume it must be."

"You're an _arse_ ," Potter said, rolling his eyes as he turned on his heels back to his room.

"This is _not_ brand new information, Potter. As a matter of fact," Draco sighed, "I've always been an arse, since birth. I believe it was stamped on my birth certificate—a warning from the devil himself, or so I heard."

Draco jumped at the sound of Potter slamming his door on the living space, and Draco began to shake his head. Shrugging, he turned to stare at the kitchen, his smirk at displeasing Potter fading as he saw the machine's lifeless body on the floor.

"Oh, _Lady Pomfrey_ , you deserved such a _better_ end."

It didn't take Draco long to get dressed, especially when Potter began round two with the banshee. His lack of sleep, combined with stress, wasn't a good mix for him, and Draco realised setting off early for a drink was, unfortunately, his only option.

* * *

When Diagon Coffee Corner first opened, it was a messy and disgusting place, and Draco was absolutely sure he would never go in there. This all changed when his inheritance cashed into his account, and his love for coffee grew which each hour of the day he became more sleep deprived from studying. Moody, the manager—and owner—had given him some confusing advice when Draco told him his proposition. " _Constant Vigilance_ "—Draco assumed from Moody's days in the army—and " _You work for what you want_ ". Draco had _never_ worked, and in truth, he knew he'd never need to, but what Moody had said had stuck with him.

Diagon on a Saturday morning was, by definition, _the worst_. It was busy, it was unreasonably difficult to walk through, and as someone who hated even touching other people, it was difficult to avoid bumping into someone. His lack of patience for other humans was thinner when he was as tired and tense as he was now. Grazing someone's skin—the hairs meeting was, and were, his worst fears realised—especially when Diagon was so public, and didn't stop people who hadn't bathed, enter.

By the time Draco reached the coffee shop, his shoulders were around his ears, and his back was arched from all the stress he was carrying. Yanking open the glass door, Draco took one step inside and was greeted by the scent of baked goods and coffee beans—also known as heaven. There was nothing like the scent of this place—and it didn't matter how often he smelt it, he would never tire of it.

The best thing Draco had ever done was help Moody with his first rota, and while he had become somewhat attached to the man with the glass eye, he wondered if one day Moody would trust him enough to take over fully in his footsteps. Although,Draco half expected he'd fight off death with a butter-knife until his last breath; he had told this once to Moody, watching the gruff man break a smile before he reshuffled his expression, " _Be on it with it you, you're greedy hands can prize the rest of this place from my cold corpse_ ". Draco respected him, something he wouldn't admit to anyone.

It was the only reason why he had helped Moody out to begin with, and later—secretly—invest in the place to keep it afloat. Draco initially told Moody it was for his benefit, "You can keep the place exactly how you like it, nothing will change this way." The truth, however, was Draco didn't want the place he called heaven to be touched by his greedy father's fingers. While Moody and Draco could disagree on many things, there was one thing they always agreed on: how much of an arse Lucius Malfoy was.

"Malfoy?"

Draco pulled himself from his thoughts, blinking twice before he focused on the erratic curls that were talking to him. With a mop bucket in hand, she looked at him with sheer shock, until he remembered his taunts as he walked past.

"Granger, what a pleasant morning it is," Draco smirked.

Her eyes narrowed, and her back straightened as though she didn't scare easily— _fuck_ , she was like Potter. "What would you like, Malfoy?"

"I'd like not to be scolded, either verbally or physically. You think today that _could_ happen?"

Granger's lips twitched, and he waited for the smirk, for the cockiness—he wanted her to feel like she had all the cards so that he could show her the game they were really playing. Snakes and Ladders: _the typhoon business edition_.

"My hand slipped, Malfoy, I could hardly be blamed then, the same as I wouldn't be now," Hermione teased, and he rolled his eyes. "I don't go around scolding people, usually. I promise—as I said then—it was an accident."

Draco snorted loudly, puncturing the air. "Like that particular hairstyle?"

He didn't wait for the reaction, the beat of silence was enough as he walked past her, heading for the stool right on the edge of the counter. Draco wasn't sure if it was the lack-of-coffee that had made him want to torture someone or his usual need to annoy, but Draco slipped past her with a different destination in mind, each step purposeful and loud with triumph. Draco couldn't help but smirk as he pushed open the little door to the back of the counter, feeling her mouth drop behind him as she stared at him from her _frozen_ place. Counting to ten, allowing her a moment before she erupted like Vesuvius, he pulled on the portafilter, banging it down before he began to fill it. He didn't need to wait long, as he reached step number five, she was suddenly storming down to him.

"What are you _doing_ , Malfoy?"

Placing one hand on the steam wand—that he knew would froth the milk like no one's business—he grinned as he allowed a five-second blow off steam out before meeting her eyes. "Getting my coffee, Granger. _Problem_?"

She was stunned into silence for half second, and it was evident he had caught her by surprise as he took the opportunity to grab the milk. Draco cocked his brow up challengingly, waiting for a reply—which seemed to kick her back into gear—as he closed the carton, staring at the milk in the metal container.

"You do _not_ work here?" She hissed, folding her arms.

Rolling his eyes, Draco flung the milk back into the fridge, slamming the door with a thud. "What a fine observation there, _Furball—_ "

Having stepped closer to him, Granger stood at the side of him with her face scrunched up. "Furball?"

Draco shrugged, submerging the wand into the silver container as he frothed the milk, holding her gaze purposefully until it reached temperature, turning the wand off as he smiled. "Well, that mess on your head cannot _be_ hair. Which either means you're _half_ a cat or some other furry _pest_ the manager is going to need to have exterminated. I could save them the trouble...but, I don't fancy it."

Huffing, Granger crossed her arms, a piece of hair falling beside her cheek as she did. "You're an _arsehole_."

"But my mother loves me all the same," Draco winked, flicking a takeaway cup up and grabbing it without breaking a sweat. "Enough _chit-chat_ , are there not floors that needed to be mopped, Granger?"

The sound of the coffee machine whirring into gear drowned out whatever response she was flinging his way, and instead of pretending he couldn't hear, Draco smirked pretending he could.

"You _don't_ work here!" She hissed again, her hair crackling with anger.

Draco quickly finished making his drink, lifting it up in victory as his pinky stuck out as he took a small, purposeful sip. "Oh, Granger, in _theory,_ you're correct. But, I'm sorry to tell you that there is a but to all of this, and I'm assuming from your self-righteous standpoint—the whole hands on hips thing you're doing—that _being_ wrong doesn't happen often," he said with almost to much delight. "While I yes, I do not work here, in a small way, my Furball friend, I do work for Moody, so, maybe put that _fuck-off_ expression away, and take your flared nostrils somewhere else."

The colour drained from her face faster than bleach on a stain, and Draco had never felt more victorious.

* * *

Hermione had _never_ been happier to finish her shift, especially when Malfoy had remained in the coffee shop all day just to, ' _keep an eye on her_ '. To make matters worse, whenever he felt it was necessary, he threw out a question like, " _shouldn't you be doing this now?_ " or " _Moody doesn't do it like that"_. She knew he was making her nervous for the sake of it, Hermione had purposefully checked on her lunch break—just to satisfy herself—that she had done everything she was meant to do, and more.

Her shift worsened when the quiet shift—she had been hoping for—erupted into a rush, one she hadn't expected, having counted on extra time to get some reading done. Moody had _'conveniently'_ taken a day's annual leave, not even turning up to his shift; Hermione was left to deal with the _out-of-this-world_ queue that went out the door into the street.

At one point, Hermione had bitten down so hard on the inside of her cheek she bled, but she would not bend for the likes of him; she would not show weakness to the likes of Draco Malfoy, even when he watched her like a hawk. Hermione Granger did _not_ let bullies win, whether they worked for her boss or not.

Thankfully, Neville Longbottom—another employee similar to herself—had arrived, and in his own way, _helped_. Apparently, he had worked at the shop for some time now, but from his retained knowledge, it was like having someone new working alongside her. Draco made a lot of jokes from his stool, but thankfully, both Neville and herself ignored him—on the outside, at least—something that seemed to irritate him further.

When her shift ended, her coat was on faster than she could say bye, and Hermione pushed open the glass door that led to her exit, letting the cool evening air hit her as she took a deep breath. Her hand clutched her bag closer as Hermione let her eyes stare up at the darkening sky—wondering how on earth she got to a place in her life where the sun was something she only saw through the glass.

"Think of how happy Professor Lupin will be with your experience. Think about the experience you are gaining in life. Think about...your first paycheck, and all the books you can buy," Hermione said to herself.

If she went home, she knew she'd have to listen to either Luna being molested, Tonks ' _being sent to the moon and stars_ '—by what Hermione hoped was sex, and not drugs—or Ginny thinking she needed life advice. With the bags under her eyes growing to the size of suitcases, she knew only one place that would make her calm, the library; especially when she had watched Neville annoyingly undoing all her work from the day. " _Why is this here?_ " or " _Is there a reason why the plant hasn't been watered?_ Neville said those things as though Hermione had any chance to care for herself, never mind any other life forms when she had been held ransom by customer's all day.

Her feet began to move before her brain kicked into gear, feeling so tired she didn't fight where her body naturally wanted to take her—but pleased when she saw the library getting closer into view. The best thing about Diagon was the twenty-four-hour library—and the fact that Madam Pince, the librarian, despised noise. With a flat full of females, Hermione didn't know what silence sounded like outside of this place, and she was glad this slice of heaven was still hers.

Opening the large wooden doors, she felt her phone vibrate, but she chose to ignore it. Instead, she focused on the scent of books—both old and new—and the soft scratches of pens against the paper. If heaven had a sound, Hermione knew this would be it.

The spot, her spot, in the library; Corner, of course, near a window with a radiator close enough by in winter she'd be warm. 

It was heaven. 

> **G.I. Weasel:** Where R U?

Hermione hated that people could even have the chance to interrupt heaven. 

> **Hermione** : Studying. Got an essay to hand in soon.

She turned the phone over, taking a deep breath before she lifted the front page of her book and smiled at the prospect of learning. Hermione's eyes focused as soon as she moved her finger to the bookmarked page, sliding the pages over as she scanned for the place she had gotten to. The moment was interrupted once more by a buzz, and Hermione tried not to lose her patience at only reading two words before she was cut short.

> **G.I. Weasel:** You see blondie today?  
>  **Hermione:** Studying is a new concept to you, I know, but it does involve silence though and reading.  
>  **Hermione** : I learnt today that he works for Moody?  
>  **G.I. Weasel:** So that's a yes. Is he really that stick-up-your-arse provokin' or are you just pissy?  
>  **Hermione** : I think I'm going to hurt you. I'm not 100% sure currently, but I think I might if you continue to interrupt me. I get very murdery when I'm tired, and stressed.  
>  **G.I. Weasel** : Bring it, bitch, I fcuking dare you. We all know I'd take you. I took karate you know, and I was raised with all brothers. You're all hair, no cum. Lol.  
>  **G.I. Weasel:** Plus, I have sambuca it's my special juice to get me pumped to take bitches out. Y'know what I meen.  
>  **Hermione:** Are you drunk?  
>  **G.I. Weasel:** If I say yes will you come home.  
>  **Hermione:** Since you didn't use a question mark, no.  
>  **G.I. Weasel:** Please don't make me drink alone Hermione. Sambuca loves company. U knoe this.  
>  **Hermione:** Turning my phone off, your language is atrocious.  
>  **G.I. Weasel:** U do that and I'll hunt u. I hve a particular set of skillz, skills that hurt books and leave pen murks in them.  
>  **G.I. Weasel:** The books scream Herrmine. They will scream ya name.

Hermione was pretty sure she gagged in her mouth—a reaction she never thought she would have in a library—but the memories of sambuca and Ginny's dare had scarred her for life. She couldn't even enjoy liquorice anymore without feeling her insides turn in on themselves—drinking was not Hermione's strong point, always the first to re-see her food. She was worse than a lightweight; the mere smell of alcohol had the walls shifting side-to-side. Actually, if Hermione was honest, much of university life wasn't for her. She liked silence, despised mess, and would rather gut her own eyes out than have meaningless sex with a guy more in love with himself than her needs.

She knew if she responded, she would never glance at the book again, and she needed to study tonight—at least tonight. If Ginny was already drinking, that automatically—by definition—gave Hermione the night off, surely? She stared at the screen of her phone, tapping her chipped nails against it.

Hermione shook her head, rotating her shoulders to muster the strength to lock her phone, forcing her back to crack as she attempted to prepare herself to begin the mountain of reading she needed to do. She was just about to pick up her pen when she noticed a shadow cast over her table. What now? Hermione hissed to herself, letting an obviously annoyed sigh pass her lips before she spun her head to look up at the culprit.

Time slowed as her eyes registered the face, the smirk; Hermione had peered up to find a pair of grey eyes she had hoped not to see until her next shift—or ever, but she knew that wasn't realistic.

"Granger, what a _bloody-fuckin'-brilliant_ , surprise?" Malfoy snarled, not at all sounding surprised. "But, you're in my spot, so you are going to _have_ to move."

For fucking, _fuck's_ sake, Hermione thought, dashing her pen against the table as she narrowed her eyes to near slits, a pained, horrid sigh passing her lips as she heard him tap his shoe against the floor.

* * *

 


	3. iii.

The first thing Draco happened to think when he saw Granger in the library was, ' _Is this hair-ball for fucking real and is she stalking me?'_

When he realised he was being dramatic—just like his father always said Draco was—he began to snarl as his brain whirled with annoyance. Then, without fail, the second thing Draco thought was, ' _God her eyes are annoyingly less-ugly in this lighting_ '.

As soon as the thought was processed— _and accepted_ —Draco's blood ran cold. He became utterly unsure how he got there, especially when he knew what her voice sounded like—annoying, grating, and full of unwanted advice or knowledge. Draco was about to freefall, lost in the confusion of why his brain complimented her; even though Draco knew how impossible she really was, the third, and final thing still popped into his mind, ' _She's in my spot'._

Granger was frowning at him as he remained stern-faced. She must have been watching him the entire time, something Draco didn't hate—he had never _minded_ being the centre of attention. Running his hand down his jacket to wipe the sweat from his palm, he cleared his throat before he tightened his jaw, narrowing his eyes to mirror her penetrating stare.

Her eyes, unlike his, purposefully cut into him. She wanted to burn him with her stare; Granger was giving him an accurate _death-by-stare_ glare, it was a shame her eyes were too hauntingly bright to do much damage. In the coffee shop—in his _favourite_ place—he had never noticed, too busy focusing on getting caffeine into himself. Now though, without coffee in his stomach and a thirst instead for reading in peace, Draco's eyes had been opened, and unfortunately for him, Granger didn't look half as bad here. Her hair may have been uncontrolled, and she could benefit from applying some concealer, but she wasn't the ugliest thing he had seen.

It didn't matter, Draco couldn't say that—he _just_ couldn't. So he went with his _old-but-never-broken-favourite_ , deflection by use of taunting.

"Granger, what a bloody- _fuckin_ '-brilliant surprise?" he taunted, trying to hide the alarm of his second thought under his tone. "But, you're in my spot, so you are going to _have_ to move."

A beat occurred before either of them moved. Granger seemed to be having her own crisis as he watched her eyes glaze over, her lips parting as she fought through her thoughts.

Just as expected, Granger snapped herself back, folding her arms—just as Draco thought she would. It would have been foolish to think she wouldn't because of course she was going to be difficult, and of course, she was going to show it with her body language.

Granger raised one brow as she looked him up and down. " _No_."

Draco licked his lips. "No?"

She shook her head, her hair not moving. "No, or are you deaf? I got here first. I have a lot of things I need to get done, and since I was here before you—"

Draco sniggered, cutting her off. "Do I really seem like the kind of person who would care?"

Draco had felt it necessary to cut her off—even if he himself hated interruptions. There was nothing ruder than an intrusion during a speech, and he felt dirty just for using it.

"I sit here, whenever _I_ need to, and I will continue to sit here every time _I_ need too."

For a second, neither spoke. It mirrored earlier, the two surveying one another as though they were animals in the wild, sizing up the other to see who would win before acting on their instincts. She observed him as if he was a work of art, which was hardly surprising to Draco; he studied her like she was a new creature, one that had found a backbone compared to the woman he had seen earlier. The Granger out of the coffee shop seemed a far cry from the woman who worked at the coffee shop, and Draco couldn't lie, it had thrown him off.

Out here, not surrounded by the smell of coffee beans, he did feel _somewhat_ guilty over his treatment of her. Only now when it was too late, and of course he couldn't, and wouldn't, tell her that. Draco would _not_ say sorry. He never apologised, not to _anyone_ , whether it was his fault or not.

For example, Draco resented living with Potter; the human-turned-angel continually tried to make him a better person, and he hated it. Potter was always advising him on how to _'talk'_ to people, often pointing out when he had been brash or stern, but Draco never apologised to them, or to Potter. So why would he with Granger?

This version of him—the one Potter _tried_ to change, and Granger resented—was perfect. And this version didn't apologise and never backed down. He didn't need to be different or better, he was a Malfoy—and Malfoy's were _born_ great. Draco knew—and _believed_ —he was great because all Malfoy's were _historically_ great men. Draco also knew becoming someone _other_ than who he was, would not bring him greatness. Apologising wouldn't make him powerful, it would make him weak.

"Earth to Malfoy?" Granger said, her fingers clicking to bring him back. Draco blinked, shaking the last parts of his thoughts away. "Did you hear a word _I_ just said?"

"Granger, I'll be honest, _no_ ," he replied, purposefully saying her name, and elongating the word no. "But I'm tired of this back-and-forth, so either move willingly or I can move you myself."

"Try Malfoy," Hermione said tauntingly, crossing her leg over her knee as she tightened the fold of her arms across her chest. "I'm not so  _easy to_  remove."

He snorted, smirked even. "Oh, Granger, I never suspected you'd be _easy_."

As if the tides had changed, Granger rose from her seat, and Draco let a winning smirk pass over his lips. He _always_ got his way; it was just a shame it had taken her a minute to realise it. When she stood—although she happened to be a whole foot shorter than him—Granger straightened her spine as though she had nothing to fear. She stared boldly into his eyes as though she had no idea who he was, and when her expression changed to one that would only be described as emotionless, there seemed to be no height difference at all between them. What Granger lacked in height, she made up for in boldness—he had to give her that.

"You may push me around at _my_ place of work, but here, this is _my_ place. I don't care if you sit here whenever _you_ want—I sit here because I don't have a private library in my house, and don't dare lie and say you don't."

For a second, Draco had no witty response. He had no weapon up his sleeve to use until _old-faithful_ flashed through his mind. "Jealous, Granger?"

"Of you?" Granger spat, snorting in response to his quick-thinking. "I'd rather hang out in a public library than have a father who _didn't_ love me."

He couldn't stop it—his mouth dropped open. Granger snatched her bag from beside her, grabbing her mobile tightly in her hand and barged past him, knowing her shoulder purposefully banged into him. Draco spun on his heels, eyes full of anger and his fingers clenched as the need for revenge grew.

"Fuckin… _ugh_ ," Draco muttered to himself, feeling the cuts of his nails digging into his palms.

He wasn't sure if he was shaking from the shame of being bested by her or because she was unashamedly truthful in her response. All he knew was, he would see her at his next shift, and Draco couldn't wait.

* * *

Frustration and anger ran through her veins as Hermione furiously clicked the button in the lift. Her bag was heavy, her back throbbed _something_ ridiculous because of it, and to top it all off, Hermione had _no_ patience for anyone, human or animal. She had no _fucks_ left to give, and if someone, anyone disturbed her when she got into her bedroom—needing to read the _inordinate_ amount she was required to do about behaviour—she was sure the next case study her psychology class would be studying would be _hers_.

' _Woman loses mind and stabs many, especially the blond idiot from the coffee shop.'_

Even the simple thought of stabbing Malfoy made her feel happy, and she wasn't sure if she should be concerned or not. Books told her she should be, but the feeling in her stomach did not. Hermione hated when that happened; she hated choosing whether to side with gut or books.

The lift pinged as it reached her floor and she rid herself of her dilemma. Hermione stomped her way to her flat door, furiously attempting to find her flatkeys—that, of course, we're hiding somewhere in the bottom of her bag. The number of times she lost them, anyone would be convinced her bag previously belonged to Mary Poppins—if only she had a word Hermione could say to summon her keys to her—she knew she could only dream.

Once found, and pushed into the lock, Hermione turned the key as she braced herself for the energetic greeting she usually got. She knew her curls would have gotten out of hand, and frizz would be vibrating from her caused by the dashing from place to place she had done. Hermione also knew she probably looked odd, even if her skin tone didn't allow her cheeks to turn as red as Ginny's, she still knew her own was burning just as bright—but she did not have a single care. Hermione was upset—beyond upset, even.

Everything she had tried so far, a new job, reading in her favourite place, had all been ruined by Malfoy. Closing the front door behind her, Hermione rested her back against the wood, taking a deep breath as she closed her eyes, just for a second. It was on the third breath she realised there had been no point in trying, her position at the front door would only raise concern, and concern just forced more questions to rise.

She had no patience for voices, even Ginny's.

Dragging herself to the living room, sinking herself into the armchair in the suspiciously quiet room, she bathed in the silence. The one thing she always craved but was never gifted. Hermione knew she'd enjoy it more if she knew where everyone else was, keeping one-eye suspiciously open in case any of them tried to scare her again.

Ginny _must_ have taken herself to bed, she thought; Luna must be out, and Tonks must be...

Hermione shuddered, not wanting to think further as to what Tonks _could_ be doing.

Pulling out her notebook, psychology book and pen, wrestling with the overly full bag to release them, Hermione placed the lid of her favourite biro in between her teeth. She rotated it twice before finding the usual ridge where her teeth sat, before biting down gently on it, feeling a wave of calmness begin to settle on her shoulders. She had opened the book to the page she had reached previously when one of the bedroom doors flung open.

Hermione tried not to groan.

"Oh! Hey, _baby girl_ , when did you get back?" Ginny asked, slowly walking over, seemingly sober in her stride but Hermione knew she wasn't. Her eyes had that look, and her cheeks were a hue only caused by alcohol and lovers.

Hermione placed the pen between the pages, closing it before she lost her place. "Just now," she said shortly.

"Hey, what's got you all… _fried_?" Ginny asked, looking her up and down. "Your hair… it's always so..." her friend rotated her wrist, a frown cutting deep into her forehead as she tried to find the words. "Uncontrollable? But this, _this_ is something else."

Hermione continued to gnaw on the pen lid, her legs hanging over the arm of the armchair as she bounced her foot up and down. "Sometimes it's uncontrollable. Sometimes. And I'm..." Hermione answered stiffly, her eyes staring through Ginny as though the answers were on the wall behind her, " _stressed_."

"You don't say," Ginny said with a smile, and Hermione sighed as her friend leant against the wall of their living room. "Is this to do with the blond-beast-from-the-East? Because I'll give him a knuckle sandwich, I'm a _pro_ at them." Ginny wiggled her shoulders. "Charlie taught me."

Feeling herself begin to smile, Hermione removed the pen from her lips and placed it on her knee. "I just hate my job."

"Then quit," Ginny said with so much ease she clearly did not understand the size of the situation. "Do not give me that pitiful look, Hermione Jean Granger!—"

"—How do you know my middle name?—"

"—For one," Ginny continued without pretending she had listened to her. "You only took that darn job to impress your professor, the same professor who is currently doing beautiful but _ugly_ things to your roommate." Hermione cast her eyes at Tonks' closed door and shuddered. "You don't _need_ a job; you live _out_ of university dorms that are all paid. Your parents are amazing, and if you rang your dad and asked him for a book, you'd have it here _quicker_ than if you ordered with Amazon Prime! So if you're truly miserable—and since you didn't grow up with six brothers I very much doubt you know the meaning of the word—you should quit."

Hermione squirmed against the chair, knowing everything her friend was saying happened to be true. She was miserable; she hated working there. Hermione knew people; she lived with people, surely that could be enough for Professor Lupin.

She ran her hand through her curls, feeling the lugs that needed to be hacked at later, Hermione felt something still niggling in her brain. If she quit, he would win. Malfoy, the annoying terror of her life; the one she didn't even know him, but something deep down inside of her felt like she did. He was the face of all the children that didn't understand her at school, the ones who didn't want to be her friend; he was the face of the teachers that wanted her to be silent, even if she knew the answer.

Quitting her job would give all of _them_ power, and she knew, even if she wanted too, she could surrender.

"Hermione won't do that though, will you, Hermione?" Luna said, appearing from nowhere, speaking in her usual sweet, and angelic voice. "You aren't a quitter, and that is what you'd be if you did. Plus, Hermione, every choice has a path, and every path has a destination."

Ginny narrowed her eyes, and Hermione watched in amusement as Ginny tried to make heads or tails of what Luna had said. "Beautiful as always, Luna," Ginny nodded, but Hermione had a suspicion she had no idea what had been said. "You have choices, Hermione. Just like we _all_ do."

"I know that," Hermione said with a heavy sigh, turning her notepad to show them. "I've been working out the benefits and problems of working there. I even made a list! Here, for example; _one_ , I handed my paper in today!"

Ginny scrunched her face up. " _And_? Wasn't it due today?"

Hermione clasped her notebook shut. "That isn't the point. I have always had them in _early_."

"Maybe that's your problem. Maybe your professor is trying to get you to stop being a massive bookworm and live your life. Now, speaking of people who take _Y.O.L.O_ too seriously, Ron's coming this weekend."

She tried not to give anything away, but Hermione knew her face had paled.

"Oh don't give me that sad, pathetic look, if you can handle Malfoy you can handle Ron," Ginny said with a smirk. "Plus, girl you got hot—"

"— _What_?—"

"—and you dated like _ten_ years ago!—"

Hermione frowned. "—it was a year ago, and I broke his heart—"

Ginny, who couldn't be stopped, even by a freight train, continued talking without listening to Hermione. "—and he's over you. He told _me_. He explicitly told me to tell you—which thinking of it, makes me wonder if he's not...hmm." Hermione stared wide-eyed as Ginny came back to the room with a shake of her head. "Anyways. He's made a friend from his apprenticeship."

Raising her brows suspiciously, Hermione cleared her throat, feeling the need for expansion.

"Oh, he went and got an apprenticeship at Diagon Police Department," Ginny said with a knowing smile. "I think _someone_ told him to get his life together."

Hermione felt her cheeks turn red.

* * *

Ron Weasley had always been a ' _nice guy_ '. He was someone who would defend _anyone's_ honour, and while yes, he may have always been the one to throw the first punch, he would never do it without reason. Logically, on paper, Ron had been the perfect guy for Hermione. He was funny, he knew the importance of the little things, and he always had her back—even when she didn't have her own. However, realistically and as they both quickly discovered, they didn't _click_ as a couple.

If Hermione had thought about it, the two of them had made _zero_ sense, except when she thought of the day she threw herself at Ron the day he said, " _no one should test on animals"_. He may not have been the most exceptional listener, but he _always_ showed up for her. And that day, when the rain was pouring on her, and the leaflets in her hands were falling apart, he came with a brolly and a big smile.

She just wished he was the one thing she hadn't fucked up. Like everything that wasn't in a book, Hermione could not keep anything intact. _Everything_ broke apart, her friendships, her connections with people, and even her relationships. She was stroppy and opinionated, and often not able to hold her tongue—and Ron was hot-headed and often illogical, but, he cared. He cared too much sometimes, about her and how she felt, that often, she hadn't known how or what she even felt. It had still hurt when they broke up, and it hurt to think about even now, and for that reason, Hermione hadn't wanted to see him again, even though she knew she had too.

For one, she was best friends with Ginny and the rest of the Weasley family still, their updates on her social media feed greeting her most mornings. Secondly, Ron had asked her to go for lunch, and Hermione _couldn't_ say no, even if she wanted too. She couldn't make up some excuse like, ' _I'm busy_ ' because she _lived_ with _his_ sister. Hermione also couldn't because he was a nice guy, and nice guys didn't deserve to be treated like arseholes, even if she somewhat wished he was an arsehole so she could decline his invite.

"Hey."

"Hi," Hermione said as she greeted him, keeping it simple and polite. "How are you?"

Ron smiled, beamed in fact. "I'm good, but, look at you! A far cry from the girl with _huge_ hair and crazed brows, huh?"

Hermione's cheeks flushed, and Ron's face dropped. She knew it was a compliment, somewhere deep down; it just hadn't felt like one, not when the past was still so fresh. Not when their _breaking-point_ fight was still running through her head.

"I, _um_ , did the foot and mouth thing again, didn't I?"

She shrugged lightly, feigning a smile as she seated herself at the cafe table he had been waiting at. "It's fine, Ron. I know you meant well." Hermione clenched her eyes shut, hearing exactly what he had meant when they broke up. She was patronising, and clearly, she still was. "Ron, I'm sorry—"

"Let's start again," he added quickly, shifting against his chair. "Hey."

"Hi," she said laughing.

Ron began to smile, a blush appearing on his cheeks and nose. "You still have a pretty laugh."

Hermione rolled her lips into a smile. "And I still prefer your company to your sisters."

"Invasive, isn't she?" Ron said as he grabbed the menu. "Can't believe you guys hit it off. I always knew Gin would be destined for great things, but Diagon? _Fuck_. Actually, I'm not sure I'd have thought any of it, one year later and my sister and... _friend_ , at university together."

Cupping her arms around her stomach, Hermione looked over at him before she replied. "I'm glad we... _met_ , Ron. I know, realistically, we shouldn't have, but my parents moving to your village was really a blessing in disguise, even if I complained the entire time."

Ron shrugged. "Look, you moving back to Hampstead was good for both of us. I gotta travel on the train more, and you were happier without seaside air messing up your hair."

Hermione glared teasingly. "The seaside air didn't just mess up my hair, Ron; it volumised it by a _thousand_. I looked like a walking talking member of the hair-bear-bunch."

Grinning to himself as he looked down at the menu, Ron licked his lips and muttered, "Well, I always thought you were pretty."

Ears burning in embarrassment, Hermione brushed her hair behind her eat. "Ron..."

"I'm just speaking the truth, now, truthfully speaking again, I'm _starving_ , so how about we save memory lane for after sandwiches," Ron said with a grin. "And then I can tell you about someone amazing."

Hermione tilted her head with a smirk. "Oh? Colour _me_ intrigued."

Ron placed the menu down dramatically, and fakely. "Oh Hermione, I met a boy—" he sang quietly.

Laughing, Hermione pressed her own menu down. "—was he _everything_ you dreamed of?"

The two of them burst into laughter, Ron clutching his chest as Hermione placed her head down to her chest, trying to wipe the tears of joy from her face.

"But seriously, I have _thee_ male best friend to top all best friends. Not only is he a badass, and not only is he not one of my brothers, but he's only bloody _Harry Potter_!"

Hermione's mouth dropped open. "The boy who survived that horrid car crash by that lunatic driver and then was later found by police living under the stairs of his aunt's house?"

Ron nodded. "The _very_ one."

"Wow."

"Right?"

Hermione blinked, smoothing the corners of her menu with her hand. "Is he..."

Ron nodded again. " _Right_ as rain. He has a little scar, but, um, I pretend not to notice, you know, outta respect."

"Of course," Hermione replied.

"What about you? Any _new_ men in your life?"

Ron would see through any lies, he _knew_ her, sometimes better than she knew herself. For that reason, she tried not to roll her eyes, but she did. In the end, Hermione found she had done it so _loudly_ she was sure the entire district of London would have heard them roll in their sockets.

"Only a pest who bothers me, and happens to be everywhere I want to go," Hermione said disdainfully. "I don't want to go as far as I hate him, but..."

Ron shook his head laughing. "You _hate_ him?"

Hermione laughed at herself, joining Ron. "I really do, and it's so bad. I don't like the word hate. But he is someone who is worse than those who fold the corners of library books—Oh, or the people who touch food at a buffet and put it back."

"I do hate those people," Ron added with a grin.

"He just gets under my skin," Hermione sighed heavily. "He is constantly in my workplace, even though he doesn't even work there, _and_ it's clear he thinks he's better than me. He wears it like a badge: _I'm from old money, and I'm better than everyone else, especially those whose parents run a dental practice, la la la_." Her nose stuck up in the air, mimicking Malfoy.

Ron laughed at her impression, and Hermione was rather glad he did. The moment she had done it, guilt washed over her. Hermione didn't really _know_ Malfoy, even if he was a giant arsehole who she didn't need to know. Impersonating him somehow felt low, below the belt, and far from who she was. Now punching him, Hermione thought to herself with a devilish smirk, that's a different ball-game altogether.

"Y'know Hermione," Ron said, pulling her attention back to the table, "life is like a game of chess. You sacrifice a few pawns—that's parts of who you are—but all for the bigger picture, gaining the Queen, the person you're _meant_ to be after all of this."

Hermione nodded acknowledging Ron's word, a smirk beginning to grow on her lips. "You also know, you can't take _this_ queen from this messy-haired chess board."

"No, you cannot."

Picking up her menu again, Hermione shuffled in her seat, straightening her spine. "Ron, don't ever let me tell you that you aren't wise."

He snorted, and she shot him a look for the noise. "Hey, if I _ever_ hear you say that again, I know something is wrong."

"Shut up, _Ronald_!"

Ron laughed, mockingly but Hermione tried not to take any offence. "There's the Hermione I know. The _non-taking-shit_ Hermione, the one that only breaks the rules for gains of the many; the woman who could get me out of detention with a click of her fingers, and several books."

Beginning to blush, Hermione didn't break eye contact—unwilling to cower down, and eventually joining in on the jest, because Ron _did_ have a point. She had told herself to not be as strong-willed at university, to blend in, to not be the _know-it-all_ she was deep down, but really, the Hermione she was— and Ron _knew_ —would never allow someone to push her around.

She would never let someone make her feeling like quitting was the only answer.

Hermione let herself smile as Ron continued speaking, Hermione not listening like she usually would as she sipped on her drink, her mind drifting to the blond who had no idea a what was coming.

* * *

 


	4. iv.

Draco Malfoy could have been described as a great many things: successful, determined, and someone who took pride in their appearance.

On top of that, Draco had been raised to believe he was a _special_ member of a higher society—which he later realised was because of his family's wealth, and not because he was superior. He had been born with a silver spoon in his hand since the first moment he opened his eyes, and due to his father's insistence, he had never let it go. He often wondered if his father was the root for the _other_ side Draco, the part of him that was broken beyond repair. For years before he had even left for university, Draco had felt like a stranger in his own home. His father had often brought home people he would be defending in court, but none were scarier than Thomas Riddle.

Thomas Riddle had changed Draco's home the moment his expensive heel stepped foot inside of it. His dark soul twisted out of his mouth, wrapped around pleasantries that were a smokescreen for what he truly meant. It was a shame Lucius Malfoy was blinded by power because then he may have seen his own downfall. Draco, who tried to prove every chance he got that he was nothing like his father, had seen it approaching before the trial date had announced. The man happened to be on trial for murder, and yet somehow was given bail. Draco suspected there was more than met the eye with that 'turn of luck', but he knew when to keep his mouth shut. When his father realised the number of skeletons in Riddle's closet, Draco knew he had begun to panic.

That panic doubled when Draco stepped through the front door to find a man begging for his life in his dining room, his father clutching his mother as she silently lost her mind. Draco knew then he no longer wanted to be a part of that society, the one Draco had always been told would make him into someone great.

It hadn't bothered him as much as he initially thought. Shutting the door on the life planned for him came with its own difficulties— _and whispers_ —but it slowly got easier, and unfortunately was further eased by Potter. What had originally made them despise one another, eventually brought them both together. When Draco confessed to Potter he knew for a fact Riddle had plotted the car crack that killed his parents, Draco found Potter let his guard down. Potter after then became a friend rather than a foe, and when Draco stood as a secret witness to prosecute his father's client, Draco knew realistically it was only _friends_ he had left, having burned the final bridge with Lucius Malfoy.

Draco was adamant he would have unravelled—he would have become far more broken—without therapy. The therapy provided by the university he wasn't supposed to have even gone to—the irony wasn't lost on Draco.

At first, Draco had been embarrassed. He was a Malfoy; he did not _need_ therapy. What did he even have to be upset about? He had been given a perfect life, a lovely set of parents, and all the money in the world. How could he even be unhappy? Except, deep down, Draco knew he had every reason to be unhappy. On the outside, having wealth and parents who were always stood by his side, made Draco's life appear as perfect as it should. Under the layer his parents perfect wove, was a cracked family, a fragmented love that never felt whole.

Draco never realised any of it until he met Severus—his therapist.

Severus Snape had his own issues, and Draco had made it compulsory for him to share them before the two ventured on. Draco didn't want to unpack a childhood worth of issues if the man he found himself opposite had no way of relating—even if he was the best therapist in Diagon and Knockturn. Severus had a loved a girl, and eventually lost said girl, and never quite recovered— Draco had initially found it hard to believe, especially with his appearance.

For one, Severus had hair to his shoulders, inky black that looked like he had applied a thin layer of gel to keep it in place. His clothing was always black, even when Draco had dropped in on emergency visits. To top it all, there was an aura of hatred that circled Severus at all times—like moons orbited a planet. And like moons, without what they circled, they would be nothing, and Severus would be nothing without his hatred.

"So. The girl, _Granger_ , is it? Still causing... problems?"

Draco spread his palm over his knee, thinking before answering, a new technique he was trying out. So far it hadn't been successful.

"In her small ways," Draco said dryly. "We haven't spoken much since the library."

"Through choice or..."

Draco waited, finding Severus had a habit of pausing for effect. It made it difficult when he wished Draco to think up his own end of the sentence.

Wrapping his hands around his knee, Draco grit his teeth. "She works in the coffee shop, so there is some element of a discussion."

"Have you wanted to respond to her insult from the library? The _one_ about your father, the one..." Severus looked down at the pad of paper in front of him, "' _Rather than have a father who didn't love me_ ', I am sure that was it. Have you wanted to respond to that?"

Yes.

_No._

Yes.

Flexing his fingers before digging his nails into his knee, Draco fixed his eyes on the plaque behind Severus' head. It didn't matter if there were no right answers in therapy; there was always a correct answer with Severus.

_...than have a father who didn't love me_

_...than have a father who didn't love me._

"Draco?"

He snapped his eyes back to Severus', the dark orbs watching him intently, waiting with limited patience.

"Yes," Draco replied softly—softer than he normally spoke. "But I won't. _Haven't_."

Severus raised a brow, lifting the sleeve of his long coat before scratching his pen across the board. He knew it was the way of therapy, but Draco hated it. He hated not knowing what someone thought, and he hated anyone making remarks about him.

"How is your relationship with your father?"

Before he had even finished his sentence, Draco had bit down hard on the inside of his mouth. He couldn't help it, no matter how hard he tried not too. He didn't like the pain that came with it or the metallic taste that flooded his mouth, but somehow it still relaxed him.

Every time his father was mentioned—especially as of late—Draco would do the same thing. The many cuts he had amassed recently at therapy, stung in his mouth when he enjoyed anything too sweet or too salty, but at least he never had that issue with coffee.

"Draco?" Severus said sharply, and Draco blinked twice before his eyes focused again. "Somewhere you'd rather _be_?"

"No."

Severus tilted his head. "Well...your father?"

Draco swallowed, releasing the iron grip on his knee, knowing there would be marks beneath his trousers from how tight it had been.

" _Fabulous_ ," Draco lied.

Raising his eyebrow suspiciously, Severus leant back in his chair. "You should work on your lies in between our sessions; you are _quite_ terrible."

Draco snorted as he moved his hand from his leg, brushing it through his hair as discomfort flooded over him—hoping desperately to avoid talk of Lucius.

"I like to be an open book for you, Severus. Make _your_ life easier."

Scratching away on his pad, Severus looked up through the curtain of his hair. "Let's discuss your roommate. I know how that man, like so many others, _thrills_ you."

Draco had no idea why he came, rolling his eyes as he ran his hand down his face. He hated talking about the things that bothered him, but Severus liked to unearth them—having a sick love for skeletons on display.

"Well, to be fair to _Potter—_ "

"Potter?" Severus interrupted, a first for him.

Draco eyed him. "Yes, _Potter_. Have I not said his name before?"

"You have used... _various_ names to describe him, none of which seemed to be his given name," Severus said coolly, but Draco didn't buy it.

Licking his lips, hating how dry they always were at therapy, Draco placed his hand on his lap. "You know _him_?"

Severus stared at him, even in the office lighting Draco could see his eyes darkening and lightening. He was deep in thought, unsure how to answer, and the irony wasn't lost on Draco. Severus spent far too much time attempting to coerce answers from Draco, but could not come up with his own.

"No. I do not _know_ your roommate."

Draco let out a sigh, knowing something was amiss, especially when Severus began to lick his own lips, as though they two had suddenly gone dry.

"You know _something_ ," Draco said with a knowing snarl.

The rooms atmosphere heightened, tension clinging to every corner as it grew like weeds.

"I know _plenty_ , Draco," Severus said as cold as he could. "For one, this isn't _my_ session; this is yours."

Draco's point had been proven, but he didn't dare bring that up when Severus' still hadn't blinked, and the stare he was receiving was beginning to make him feel like he was on fire.

* * *

Hermione sat down for her lecture in her usual place; front row, second from the middle. She had considered the middle seat, but something was amiss when she sat there, she felt too ' _teacher's pet'._

Psychology wasn't something Hermione had been initially drawn to, having first looked at studying literature. She loved reading, always had, but there had been something about the brain and the way it worked that had slowly drawn her in. Her parents, who were dentists, had wanted her to follow in their footsteps, but Hermione had known that particular profession _wasn't_ for her. She loved her parents, but she did not like watching teeth be removed.

Pulling out her book and laptop, noticing the blonde haired woman coming towards her, Hermione secretly groaned. She liked Daphne, but she did not like Daphne seated beside her. She was nice, and Hermione reminded herself of that every second she found herself sat beside Daphne during _every_ lecture. There was something about her that Hermione found she couldn't abide during Professor Lupin's lecture in particular, and it reared its ugly head before the class had even begun.

"Hey Hermione," Daphne chirped, flicking her hair from her shoulder as she sat beside her. "Don't you just love this lecture."

Daphne placed her books and phone down, and the screen of her pink iPhone lit up immediately. It made the hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stand to attention and forced her eyes to narrow to near pinpoints. There was nothing, not a single thing, that Hermione hated more than phones during lessons.

It could have had something to do with college when Hermione would find herself watching everyone busy conversing when they _should_ have been paying attention. It could have been the fact they lit up or vibrated every second of every minute when she tried to concentrate. But Hermione thought it was more likely because it reminded her of how lonely she often felt, her own phone barely lighting up—unless it was her father or Ginny.

"You alright there?" Daphne asked, smiling sweetly, as though butter wouldn't melt. "Have I lost you?"

Nodding, Hermione tried to paint a similar smile. "Of course, sorry! I just noticed your phone case; I just thought it was pretty." Nice save, she smirked to herself.

Daphne picked up her phone, turning it over before placing it back down face down. "Yeah, I thought it was cute, managed to buy it in the _sale_ at ASOS—"

Hermione had already switched off. And while she knew this could have been a factor in why she had so few friends, she honestly couldn't help it. It was as though she had a second-sense for when teachers arrived. Subconsciously, Hermione would always find herself sitting upright, almost seating herself to attention when teachers entered their classroom. But in this lecture, with this professor, Hermione knew her eyes always glanced across the room, purposefully trying to meet the green eyes that were entering. Professor Lupin had an effect on Hermione she couldn't quite explain.

He wasn't your usual old and boring lecture; he was young-ish, funny, and ruggedly handsome. He, like Hermione, loved books, and he had given her some to read during her first week. Little had he known she had already read them a year ago, but the fact he had given her suggestions had made her heart soar.

In Ginny's opinion, Hermione had a crush. Hermione, however, had repeatedly refused such nonsense. She respected him, she admired him and found his insights enjoyable to listen too, that was _all_. Or so she had thought until she saw Professor Lupin—or Remus—had come into her flat with Tonks on his arm. It didn't quite sink in until Tonks' bedroom door had slammed shut, with her professor and housemate on the other side, and Hermione quickly realised not only did she have a crush on her professor, but it was a bad one at that.

She understood why Professor Lupin would be interested in Tonks. She, unlike Hermione, knew how to have a good time and was startlingly pretty. Tonks had _worldly_ experience from travelling with Ginny's older brother Charlie, which is how Hermione had ended up meeting her and ultimately sharing a flat with her. Tonks was also not studying the same subject that Professor Lupin taught, instead, studying forensic science—having a dream of working for the police.

Even with all of that in mind, and knowing how fitting the pair seemed, Hermione couldn't rid herself of her crush. And although she had tried, she hadn't taken the advice of her other roommates.

' _You need to get under someone to get over someone Hermione. It's science,'_ Ginny had said as though she had practised such experiment herself.

' _You need to cleanse your aura, Hermione. Only then will your third eye see how wrong the Lupin man is for you_ ,' Luna had added.

She appreciated her friends, but Hermione had no third eye that needed cleansing, and she didn't fancy catching _chlamydia_ in her pursuit to rid herself of something teenagers dealt with all the time. Hermione, instead, took her own advice and decided not to shy away, and confront the crush with all it had.

Today, it had a fitting shirt and rolled up sleeves—and it was then Hermione realised she was _fucked_.

There wasn't a single boy—or man—she had liked since the beginning of university, and while never being particularly interested in boys, she found she was even worse socialising with them than girls. Especially when teen movies had led Hermione to believe she would find herself inundated with them, and would easily be able to talk to one. Which she was _not,_ if anything, it was the opposite. It always _had_ been.

Hermione was always the friend; the one sidelined with the friend of the boy, who wanted her friend. She told herself that a fresh start was all she needed, the chance to shed her teenage years and teacher-pet tendencies.

Life, as it always seemed to do, had proven Hermione wrong again. Instead, it laughed at her, mocked her even, as it handed her: a man she was most definitely suited for—but was her professor and handsome, a rude and up-himself Malfoy and finally an ex-boyfriend, who was now back on the scene, who had appeared to have grown up.

Life was cruel, especially to her it seemed. Even more so as Professor Lupin picked up his marker to write on the whiteboard, his shirt rising, exposing a slither of skin. She was sure she would have drooled, but the light on Daphne's phone took her attention, a face she'd rather not see, smirking at her from the feed of Daphne's Instagram.

Hermione's face heated up, and she was sure she lost all the colour from her complexion.

Daphne _knew_ Malfoy, so much so he was friends with her on Instagram. To make matters worse, it seemed they knew each other well for his arm to be slung around her shoulders, posing beside her. Her eyes, even when she tried, couldn't break from the phone, not even when Professor Lupin asked for everyone's attention. It was the first time Hermione had directly ignored a professor's request, and it was all because of _Malfoy_.

* * *

Torturing Granger had become a pastime Draco had come to rather love. It was better than tennis because he didn't need to work up as much of a sweat, and overall required less brain power, which he could then use on figuring out what he wanted to do next. Besides all of that, getting under Granger's skin was far too easy, and the rewarding scowl he received was better than chocolate.

His first torture came in the spirit of accidental coffee spills, only "dropping" them after he had watched her mop. Seeing her hair grow in size as every second passed was more enjoyable than watching ' _Mean Tweets_ ' on Youtube.

When she caught onto him, Draco heightened the torture. Stepping up his game in the shape of mis-organisation, something Draco usually prided himself on, but for these occasions would let slide. He had been watching her tirelessly try and organise the till area to work more efficiently—so naturally, he undid everything she had hoped to achieve whenever her back turned.

It was like his birthday when Longbottom hadn't turned up and her desperation to use the bathroom forced her to leave the serving area unattended. With a flex of his fingers and a smooth slide from his stool, Draco moved behind the till and began his plan. He started with the flavoured tea bags moving them into other corresponding boxes; next to reshuffling the cups, so none of them was in size order. Having watched her direct Longbottom into organising them from smallest to largest, left to right, the previous day. It had seemed natural to move them in a disordered fashion amongst themselves—not only from left to right—and, knowing it would send her over the edge, Draco hid some smaller ones within the larger ones, just to throw her off.

Draco knew it was petty, and he knew Severus would ask him a thousand questions as to why he felt the need to do it, but Draco couldn't help it—even if he tried. Granger irked him, from her voice to her _patronising_ stare—she assumed she knew more than him, and he hated people who incorrectly thought as much, especially when they decided he had _no_ idea what he was doing. He knew what his assignment was on; the last thing he had needed while battling word block was for her to read the question out loud.

Granger reminded him of every girl at private school, swanning past him thinking just because he was born into money, he didn't care about anything else when that wasn't true.

Hearing the flush of the toilet, Draco smirked gleefully as he slid around the other side of the counter, positioning himself just as he was when she had initially left. Facing his textbook, phone swirling between his fingers, he coyly glanced up as Granger lifted a cup, and then another, until she snapped a menacing stare his way.

"You are an _arse_ , Draco Malfoy!" Granger spat, her fingers turning white as she gripped the cardboard cup in her hand, squashing the life out of it with each passing second.

"Accidents happen, Granger," he smirked knowingly, feeling his phone vibrate, momentarily stealing his attention. "You should know..."

Draco trailed off, struggling to swallow as he stared at the Snapchat he had just received from _GreenDaGrassi_ , or more commonly known as Daphne.

The coffee machine groaned as it ground the beans, and even as his eyes stared up at the ridiculous brown ones that burned into him, Draco was sure he could hear Granger's foot hammering against the tiled floor.

"I should know _what_ , exactly?" Granger hissed as the coffee machine silenced, her voice changing as she spoke to the customer she was serving, but still, Draco didn't look up.

He couldn't pull his eyes from his phone even as the till rang, and the drawer slammed. Draco didn't press the screen to rid the photo as her shadow cast over him, signalling her arrival. He felt the air shift, a cold sensation draping over them like a sheet.

It was then he looked up, meeting the same eyes that were on his screen. "You know Greengrass? _How_?"

Granger stared for a second, an unreadable expression on her face. " _We_ have a class together. How do _you_ know her?"

Biting down on his lip, Draco clicked the side button, turning his screen dark. "Well, for your _information_ , Granger, I've known Daphne all my life, and at one point, I was _betrothed_ to her sister."

Her eyes widened, and Draco knew her heart had to be thumping as hard and as loud as Draco's was. It had to be. This meant that people in their lives knew the other, it meant uncomfortable parties where they'd both be in attendance and afternoon meetups where they'd have to be friendly and welcoming.

"Well..." Granger whispered.

He quickly forced his phone away, slamming the textbook shut, Draco grit his jaw. " _Fuck_. I think the word you're looking for is fuck."

* * *

 


	5. v.

Even if she urged it too, Hermione knew her brain wouldn't stop; it never did on command, least of all when she found herself unable to deal with whatever had put it into overdrive. She had always found it to be either a blessing or a curse, dependant on the situation. But when the last two hours of her shift had begun to drag, and her eyes constantly flicked from the clock on the wall to the one on her wrist. Hermione accepted, on this instance, it was nothing but a curse. 

With the realisation that Malfoy and Daphne were not only friends but childhood ones at that, Hermione felt herself go into overdrive. Her cleanliness reached a new peak, scrubbing every corner of the till area—even if she had already done so. She avoided Malfoy naturally, leaving a circular zone she wouldn't allow her cloth to go near, after a while, it became increasingly more evident that no customers would help dispel the tension and so she chose to ignore him, coming up with her own game to pass the time. First, it was to name all the elements on the _Periodic table_ —just for fun—before she moved to listing all the _Penguin Classics_.

"Ignoring me won't make time go quicker, Granger."

Hermione wanted to comment that neither of them knew this for a fact, and if she didn't test it, they never would. Instead, Hermione chose to _continue_ ignoring him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was bothering her.

Pulling out the leftover pastries and placing them in an unused carrier bag, all the while ignoring Malfoy who had given up reading his textbook.

Would Daphne tell him all her secrets? All those times when Hermione had allowed her guard to fall, allowing herself to feel safe amongst her group of friends. As her tongs held the last croissant, what if Daphne wanted them all to hang around together, not knowing how hard he had made Hermione's life?

"You have gone awfully pale, _Granger_. Hope you aren't coming down with something; I'd hate to have to sit opposite someone who is ill."

Hermione stuffed the croissant in the bag, angrily throwing the tongs in the direction of the sink before knotting the bag aggressively. She wanted to reply that he didn't have to sit here at all; he could go home—be in his own space. Hermione wanted to throw the bag at his head, tell him to go fork himself and then throw him out the shop—but she knew, realistically, she couldn't do either. She couldn't assault a customer.

"So, what's the _worst_ thing you've said about me?" Malfoy said again, repeating the same question he had asked an hour ago. "I know you would have said something; you don't strike me as someone who can _hold_ in their fury."

Hermione could tell he was pushing her; the evidence was all over his ridiculously pale face. She wondered how lonely his life must really be to sit in here, harassing her, instead of going home. She considered asking him as much, but she knew he wanted _her_ to snap, wanted her to appear as the impossible one—when it was clearly him—and she wouldn't bite the bullet. Not today, if ever.

He sniggered, and still, Hermione didn't speak, turning her back to him as she pressed the screen on the coffee machine, beginning the self-cleaning process. 

"If it were something _bad_ you would have said," Malfoy said, "so I can only assume it is something nice. And you don't want me to find out that you've been nice, do _you_ , Granger?"

Gritting her teeth, Hermione poured a cup of boiling water over the drip-tray, watching as the water trickled down the drain of the machine. She focused intently, listening to the machine hiss and whistle as it went through its routine.

Hearing the shuffle of the stool he was sitting on, she cast a glance over her shoulder, finding him smirking more cockily than ever.

"Have you called me names, _Granger_? Have you strung insult after insult together, in the hope of making yourself _feel_ better?" His tone darkened, and his eyes never left her face. "Did you say all the things you cannot say to my face, but would freely say to your friends, thinking you were safe? Did you say how you find yourself looking at me—yes," he grinned proudly, "I have seen you do it."

With one hand he lifted the stool, placing it upside down on the counter as Hermione allowed herself to swallow before she painted an unimpressed appearance on her face. Malfoy slowly walked around the counter, casting his eyes to the floor before pushing open the counter door, shooting her a purposeful glance as he walked through it. She felt each footstep in her bones, the air thinning as the gap between them closed, her heart had begun to race.

The machine was louder than ever, and yet the hairs on the back of her neck began to stand up because all Hermione could hear were him. She took a step to the side as Malfoy glanced up and down her, and she wanted to punch him just for thinking he could.

"I don't waste my time discussing _you_ ," Hermione said, hiding the lie beneath unacceptance. "Just the same as I don't look at _you_ , except to wish the ground would swallow you up and free me from having to deal with you."

He licked his lips, placing one hand in his pocket as he set his weight on one leg. "Now that's a lie; I think you _rather_ like my company, Granger."

Hermione kept her expression stern, tensing her jaw as he brought a hand up to move his hair back from his face. "I do _not_. You are the impossible person I've ever had the misfortune of meeting."

Dropping his hand from his hair, he ran it over his cheeks and jaw. Even if Hermione didn't want too, she couldn't stop herself from admiring him. He was attractive, yes, _but_ only on the outside. His insides were rotten, that much was clear. He had zero care for anyone else, purposefully spreading his idiotic views on anyone who would listen; he forced her to make mistakes in his presence, not allowing her to do her job—one she knew she could do well—and not only that, but he felt he owned the place. Draco's entitlement was what really pissed her off, and it was all of that—and many other sentences—she feared would get back to him. But most of all, it was that she had drunkenly admitted he wasn't that bad to look at, that was the worst one of them all.

Because the compliment for sure would inflate his stupid, ridiculous head.

"You should calm down, Granger. You're beginning to show you're bothered."

Malfoy shot her a shit-eating grin, and her fists clenched either side of her. He took another step closer, allowing the door to close, leaving them both together behind the counter in the space that seemed to grow smaller by the minute.

"You think a lot of yourself, _Malfoy_."

A smug grin slid over his lips, his teeth appearing between his lips. "Someone has too, Granger. We can't all find ourselves adored by the masses."

"What are you even on ab—"

His finger raised, cutting her off as he pulled out his phone. "Saved by the phone, Granger." Sliding his phone over the screen, Hermione released the tension in her spine. "Shame, guess I'll have to continue this _sparring_ another time."

Turning his back to her, Hermione allowed herself to release a small sigh. His voice low as he pulled open the door leading himself out, Hermione's eyes betrayed her and fell to his jeans—just like they always did.

* * *

Returning home after spending a shift with Malfoy around should have been freeing, but when Hermione found her flat livelier than she liked, she half-wished she had been able to keep the shop open later. She didn't dislike people in her home, but she didn't love it either. She had work to do, and with her front room filled with food, music, and Ginny _and_ Daphne, Hermione knew she would get nothing done. _'Its the university experience, love'_ , her dad had said when she had called to moan, ' _you need to have fun'_.

Pulling her hoodie over her head, trying to ignore the chants of her name from the living room, Hermione allowed the release of a sigh. She closed her bedroom door, turning the lock as she dropped her bag to the floor, her eyes meeting the mirror. She couldn't stop herself as she lifted her hoodie, staring at her untoned stomach and the faded silver-lines left over from her childhood _'puppy fat'_ stage. She trailed her eyes down to her legs, turning them to the sides, at least proud they were toned, and relatively lovely looking.

Dragging herself to her desk, pulling down her hoodie as her hair exploded, she pulled up the magnifying mirror—the one she named 'the enemy'. Hermione hadn't dared to look at her face this morning, because, on another day, Hermione wouldn't be this self-hating, but today it seemed she had woken up on the wrong side of the bed and found herself picking on her appearance and inner-self more than usual.

Slowly, she applied Sudocrem to the blemishes, trying to smoothe out the baby-hair sticking out around her forehead. If she was going to spend an evening with Ginny, Hermione didn't want to look like she had been dragged through a bush backwards, even if that was her MO.

"Hermione!"

" _Coming_!" She shouted to the duo in the living room, rolling her eyes as she tugged the hoodie down to her hips and turned to face the doorway. "I'm getting changed."

Hearing nothing back, Hermione allowed herself a sweeping glance of her short-covered rear and smiled, "Least I've got that."

" _Hermione_!"

Hermione hissed before pulling open her door and grabbing the book from the edge of her bookcase. "I said _I_ am coming."

The two females remained silent as she entered the living area, slamming herself down in the armchair as she flung her legs over one arm. Hermione forcibly opened the book, hearing the spine crack as she winced.

"We've decided something." Hermione raised a brow as she looked at her red-haired friend. "You need to get laid," Ginny replied, swiping the brush of her nail polish over her nail. "Like, whether it be the _blond-bug_ from the coffee shop, or Longbottom from down the corridor—who in my opinion, has _gotten_ so hot."

Hermione half-rolled her eyes, staring blankly at the page of her book. If she looked up, she knew they would never allow her to get out of this conversation, and if she continued to ignore them, it was likely Ginny would beat her with the book.

Letting out a soft sigh, Hermione rolled her head to meet Ginny's waiting expression. "I work _with_ Longbottom."

"Lucky you, he is _so_ hot," Daphne said, her fingers coming to her lips before moving them from her face—like a chef who'd made a fantastic meal. "I've heard he's got, like, an eight-pack."

Ginny nodded, and Hermione dove her hand into the bag of crisps on the side table. She hated BBQ flavour; they always left an odd taste in her mouth—one that brushing or chewing gum never helped rid. Each crunch brought more shame as Hermione tried to remember the last time she had sex—to be truthful, it had been a while, but she hadn't thought it was _that_ long. Heat began to move up her neck, sweeping over her as she felt the back of her neck run cold with realisation.

"I'm not going to sleep with Neville!" Hermione blurted out, not realising—in her panic—that Ginny and Daphne had moved on with their conversation. The two women stopped and begun to wear matching smirks. "He's my friend, colleague _even_."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "You can sleep with friends, what other perks are there to being friends with men?"

Hermione shut her mouth, frowning. Ginny who crunched another crisp looked at her, waiting for an answer. When one didn't appear to be coming, she nodded silently. "Is that what happened with Nott, _Daphne_?"

"Maybe," Daphne giggled. "But you know, he's quite a good friend and, he's very… _gifted_. It's an injustice if I didn't _use_ it, isn't it?"

Hermione, who knew Theo Nott well from visiting Luna, shivered. There were many things she wanted to know about Theo, but his endowment was not one of them. Hermione was nowhere near a prude, but what happened between her and another behind closed doors, should remain there. She hoped that by following that rule, others wouldn't discuss her. Especially those she knew at college—way before she found her confidence at her university.

Having had enough, and hoping to shift the conversation from her sex life or anyone's sex life to something more PG, she looked at Daphne. "How's work, Daphne?"

"It's crap. I mean, there is literally crap _dumped_ on the floor that no one ever cleans up," Daphne said, throwing her legs over the arm of the chair, "and _I_ can't pick it up, _I_ have a manicure—and you know, _I'm_ high maintenance."

Ginny snorted. "Are you _really_?"

"Shut up, Ginevra, just because _you_ work in a sports bar and get tips for smiling," Daphne chastised. "It's actually ridiculous how easy your job is?"

Ginny shrugged. "Is it my fault that men _love_ fiery gingers who adore sports? Or, is it my fault that I'm so delightfully petite that I can't do many things other than man the bar and look pretty?"

Hermione smirked, grabbing the tub from Ginny's hand—one small positive of living in a flat with a tiny living room. "You are _not_ delightful."

"No, guess I'm not," Ginny shrugged, winking to them, "but I do give a good blowjob, so I have my uses."

"Ugh," Hermione groaned, trying to focus on the words in front of her.

Daphne cleared her throat, and Hermione didn't need to look up to see the smirk that was undoubtedly on her face. "What about _Malfoy_ , Hermione?"

She didn't look up, too fearful her cheeks would give her away. "No, Daphne. Just no."

"Uh-huh," Ginny said with a playful tone. "We'll see."

Hermione thought of arguing, even providing a list of why Ginny wouldn't see that, but she instead opted for silence. Turning the page slowly, Hermione lifted her head, hoping to show she was unfazed. It was unlikely Ginny would buy it, especially as Hermione's ears were still so warm her hair was frizzing, and she was sat so straight her back had begun to hurt. Again, Hermione refused to let them see that she possibly, would, if tipsy, consider Malfoy, after all, he did have nice eyes when they weren't glaring into hers.

* * *

Draco knew he was being a dick, even more than he liked to admit. His father had become insistent Draco come home for dinner, and he rather hated being forced to do anything—particularly by his father. His bad mood wasn't helped by other people; people who seemed to want to annoy him further.

"Granger, can we make my drink a little quicker?"

Her hand moved to her hip, her elbow a perfect 90-degree angle, as her face looked thunderous. "Of course, Malfoy. While we are on the subject, can you _say_ please or is that a word your nanny didn't teach you?"

She planted a smile for the oncoming customers, but Draco knew under all of it was a snarl or a smirk. He shook his head, closing his hand till they became fists, and stormed from the counter to the table beside the window.

Something he detested about Granger was the fact she was far quicker than he with replies. It annoyed him immensely, anytime he said something smart, she would give a quick backhanded response that would leave him silent for minutes. It bothered him so much so, he had begun to tense his jaw to the point of it cracking—and that only further aggravated him.

Life, as of late, was full of small annoyances. Potter had become more mysterious than ever, Draco's professor had been more of a pest than usual, and then there was _Granger_?

Draco wasn't sure he could cope. He hated change. He despised it so much he usually avoided circumstances where change would become a problem. He disliked anyone who couldn't keep to a plan or was dis-organised, and he knew—deep down, under all of his annoyance—that Granger did too. She was likely the only person who would understand it better than himself. Draco knew her slip-up with the delay in his drink was more an accident rather than an error, and if he were a better man, he wouldn't have even said anything. But he wasn't, he was a terrible man who wore his attitude on his sleeve.

He hated to say it, but Granger was his favourite to visit. She kept to her lane, she liked the counter to be tidy, and she was quick and fearless with customers and complicated drinks. Draco would actively choose to study with her behind the counter over anyone else—and so had forcibly asked Moody to make her rota line up with his free periods.

It seemed, however, that Draco couldn't find the same when he picked partners to invest in. While Pansy was his friend, she was also Draco's least favourite person to do business with, _ever_. She had time-management issues, she was bold and brash, and most of all hated definitive plans.

"I can't believe you're holding a meeting here," Pansy said with a snarl, removing her sunglasses as she sauntered over and pulled out a chair. "It's a coffee shop."

If he was honest, he hadn't _wanted_ to meet her here, but his options were limited. For one, Potter couldn't stop nailing the _wailing woman_ , and Draco needed caffeine to deal with Parkinson—and he had yet to buy a new pod machine.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Well done, ten points to Pansy. You're also late."

"I have no idea why you study here," Pansy said as she surveyed the place, a rich layer of disgust on her face as she ignored his jab. "Your family is rich."

"My family are also universally detested, and you know as well as I do that it's less likely to be attacked in a coffee shop than my parents' home," Draco said with disdain before lowering his voice, "I also have investments in this place, as you know."

Flicking her hair from her shoulder, Pansy places her elbows down on the table. "Yes, but you don't have to hang-out where you invest, that's the point of investing—of purchasing businesses and hiring people to do the _slave_ work."

He thought of responding but instead chose to bite the inside of his mouth before he counted to ten. Severus, his therapist, had said he wouldn't make as many enemies as he usually did if he took a second to think before speaking.

Draco managed to count to five. "As someone who cares little for history, I will offer you the advice of not throwing the word slave around when, one, you haven't worked a day in your life and two, are surrounded by people who would find the term—coming from you—extra-offensive."

Pansy's mouth opened, ready to insert her defence before looking around the place and sighing, admitting defeat.

Moving closer, purposefully turning his back to Granger to avoid her lip-reading him. "And then I will remind you that I have a _personal_ reason for being a silent owner of this place," Draco said in a whisper, "and bringing attention to such will not keep it a secret. Do I make myself clear?"

Her lips straightened into a thin line. " _Crystal_."

"Now," Draco hissed, clapping his hands together. "You _had_ a question for me?"

Pansy swallowed, entwining her hands together as she kept her elbows on the counter. "I'm having difficulty with a designer."

"And?"

"And, I wondered if your father—"

" _No_ ," Draco snapped.

Having apparently not anticipated that answer, Pansy frowned as she retracted her arms. "But—"

"No, no, _nope_ ," Draco insisted again. "This has nothing to do with him, and if you involve him, your brand will fall flat before it sets off. No one likes to buy shoes from someone who works with murderers."

Pansy licked her lips, and Draco knew she was buying time to think of an appropriate answer. It was Pansy to a fault. She had always been that way, never being able to understand not getting her way. Draco could sympathise, for a long time he had been the same, but Pansy wasn't as willing to change as Draco had been.

"He was cleared of involvement."

Draco snorted, not caring for how blunt or direct it sounded as he leant against the staff side of the counter. "If you believe his innocence then you're more of a fool than my mother. You remember him when we were children, Pansy. He may have shown he loved his family, but you know what old money does to hearts."

Her face paled, and she nodded. "Hearts wilt."

"If you need a lawyer, go _get_ one," Draco said, bringing the conversation back to the importance of why the two of them had met. "Find one that will get shit _done_ without spraying you _in_ shit."

Pansy continued to nod, but Draco knew she was still thinking about her own parents. The same people cut from the cloth like his own. He wanted to comfort her, unsure if she would berate him or allow him, but he slid his hand across the cold table all the same. His fingers almost reached, her resting hands as Draco softened his expression. He hoped to seem sincere and not heartless, but it didn't matter, not when the screech of his name cut through the moment, flaring every muscle in his body until it stood at attention.

Draco let his eyes glare at the woman who had called him, her hair frizzing under the heat of the shop. He tilted his head, signalling for her to speak.

"Your drink, Malfoy," Granger hissed, placing the steaming cup down before him before storming off to the waiting queue.

Sighing, he retracted his hand and felt Pansy's eyes remain on him as he lifted his spoon. "Who's the girl? You hire her or—"

Draco lifted his hand, silencing Pansy before she ran with it. "No, I did _not_. Moody's choice. And, also do not _insinuate_ I hire women here simply because I have a past, Parkinson."

The two of them stood, and Draco couldn't help but notice Granger trying to instruct Longbottom on how to use the milk-frother.

"I helped hire him, for one."

"Oh, how equal minded of you," Pansy said as she picked up her sunglasses, sliding them up her nose, "and I can _assume_ they're on the same pay, and they are asked to do the same tasks."

"Be nice, Parkinson," Draco said with a smirk before turning to face her.

She rolled her eyes, sticking her nose up. "Next you'll be protesting for equality everywhere."

Draco shook his head as he laughed. "Nothing wrong with that, Parkinson. If you ever decided to work a real job, you'd want to be paid the same as your peers."

Stepping from the table, Pansy turned on her heels, the expensive shoe catching the light as Draco watched her glare at Granger.

"I _am_ working a real job, arsehole, I'm a businesswoman."

"No," Draco said as she reached the door. "You're enjoying a hobby that cost more money than others. You haven't worked one of those manicured nails, ever."

Pulling open the door, Pansy sent him a wicked smile. "Oh don't be jealous, Malfoy. Green may be your colour, but jealousy is an ugly trait. Bye."

He folded his arms, watching as she strutted down the street, nose in the air as though she owned the entire place. Pansy didn't even go to the university; she just lived in university flats because they were nicer and closer to student bars. Draco let the weight fall from his shoulders and the tension retreat from his spine, the usual outcome of a meeting with Pansy. He would have fully relaxed if not for the stabbing stare coming from the side of him, one he stupidly chose to meet head-on.

Granger stood, with a raised brow and a menacing glare. "Drink okay, Malfoy?"

Allowing a smile to appear, Draco folded his arms.

"No," he replied pettily, for no reason other than he could.

* * *

 


	6. vi.

Whenever Draco had a therapy session lined up, he always found his mother became obsessed with inviting him round for dinner. At first, he had suspected she knew, and more importantly, knew his rule. Because Draco, as a rule, preferred to avoid his father for at least 48 hours post-therapy session, not that his parents knew he was attending such appointments.

Because of that, he often found himself struggling with where to go, desperately needing peace and silence to process what he had talked through. He would usually go home, but since his home had, apparently, turned into Potter's sex show, he realised his own home wouldn't be able to provide such a refuge.

No matter how often Draco skirted around Potter's antics, Potter never understood what he was hinting at. He could try being more direct, something Blaise had informed him he should do, but somehow, Draco didn't feel equipped to tell Potter that he could hear the ungodly screams coming from, on occasion, several rooms of their shared flat. It had taken gloves and a _lot_ of bleach for Draco to even comfortably shower in his own shower—and even then he had still felt unclean—which was another thing he hadn't told Potter, but all of his other friends instead.

Thankfully, there was always one place that welcomed him with open arms. It was constantly warm, scented to perfection and offered him as much coffee as he could handle. But tonight as he wandered past, Draco questioned whether he should go in, quickly weighing up the options. Eventually—and unsurprisingly—coffee beat out the possibility of Longbottom nervousness chewing at him or Moody's stern pep talks.

For a Thursday night, the place was surprisingly empty for saying it frequently was littered with students writing dissertations. It was the very reason Draco had even first found the place. He had been stressed out of his mind, walking the streets of Diagon, not at all sure how he was going to finish his first paper, and then the scent of coffee beans had woken something inside of him. Draco still couldn't remember even walking through the door, adamant each time he told the story he had floated inside like a man possessed.

The usual _zombies_ were also missing. The ones that had been on-the-go since 6 am and needed a fix and the party-goers who had been putting off their university work for weeks. But all of them were absent, as though they all had an invitation to something much more exciting than the coffee shop. He would have felt jealous if not for the fact his feet, legs and brain all hurt—Draco wouldn't even have the energy for a party if he chugged down four expressos.

Draco, however, did find Granger—someone he hadn't expected. Granger whose eyes widened at the sight of him and looked torn between hiding in the toilet or sitting herself down and surrendering the rest of her shift. Instead, she stood, perfectly straight as though her back wasn't able to bend, with an expression he couldn't adequately describe.

"Hi," Granger said as though even speaking the word tasted horrendous.

Draco nodded in greeting, pulling out a stool at the counter. "Coffee, _please_?"

Granger eyed him, and he could hear the cogs turning in her brain. She didn't trust him, not that he blamed her, somedays Draco didn't even trust himself.

"You don't _usually_ come in," Granger said sharply, moving closer to the counter.

He snorted because of course, she would reply with a revelation he already knew. "Five points to Granger, now, coffee? Or do you bother other coffee customers, past 8 p.m, with random information they don't care about?"

Reluctantly, Draco placed his bag on the counter, not taking his eyes off her as he seated himself on the chair he had pulled out. Whether he liked it or not, the way the lights shone at night did something to Granger's appearence—something he couldn't ignore even if he wanted to. The thing that bothered him more than how soft her skin appeared; how brown her eyes were, and how he didn't hate them staring at him.

"Black, please," Draco said.

She seemed to growl under her breath, but all the same, she turned on the spot, whirring the machine up for what appeared to be the first time in hours.

"Didn't even _know_ you _knew_ the word please," she shot over her shoulder.

He smirked, purposefully allowing silence to reply before he added, " _Oh_ , and Granger, no sugar."

The beans ground in the machine, and he leaned his elbows down on the counter. At first, he tried to busy himself with opening his textbook and actually reading what he was supposed to be, but instead, he found his eyes drifting to her. Granger who had her head in her hands, her elbows digging into the worktop as she moved her eyes towards something next to the till. Regardless of what he wanted to do—which was drink coffee and be silent—Draco knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate until he worked out what she was so _fixated_ on, especially when her attention _wasn't_ on his drink.

It took him a moment—one far _too long_ for his liking—as his eyes scanned over the partially hidden textbook, stitching what he could see together to create the whole picture. Suddenly, the knitted brows, the growl and the _fuck-off_ expression on her face made sense.

Luckily for her, Draco was not the kind of man to open a can of worms unless he needed to. He would undoubtedly say something wrong, likely offending her, and then neither of them would be able to do whatever they had planned to. That much was obvious, _anyway_ , but Draco had always found himself more aware of everything, thinking even more than usual, and often able to be more vulnerable after a session with Severus. He over-thought things that usually came quickly to him; he second-guessed anything he would have decided on in a heartbeat. He would also leave well alone usually, but apparently not tonight.

"You _alright_ , Granger?"

Therapy was both a blessing and a curse it seemed. The 'usual' Draco would not have asked her such a question; he would have smirked to himself as he read through his book, likely distracting her as much as he could without it affecting himself. Tonight though, Draco cared—even if he would dispute the fact until the cows came home—and he had felt the need to ask.

"Before you begin to think I'm silently judging you, I'm not. I _usually_ am, but on this occasion, Malfoy, I'm not," she said minus any malice—something he had rarely heard—as her hand placing his coffee down. "I'm honestly too tired to focus any energy on _hating_ you, I really need to study, and unfortunately I hadn't thought you would be here."

"Or _fortunate_?" Draco smirked, retrieving the cup as it warmed his fingers. "Do you need a hand?"

He hated even asking; it tasted bitter. Draco wished he could pull the words back, hold them close and tell her it was a joke. But the words had landed, her eyes had widened a little in shock, and all he could do was pray she didn't need him.

Granger groaned, making a point to make it as loud as she could, just enough for him to hear, as she rang the till. "Unless you're a psychology whizz, I don't _need_ to hear from you tonight."

Draco instinctively rolled his eyes. It was a natural reaction he had whenever someone was being pissy for no reason. He blamed Pansy because if she weren't a sarcastic wench most of the time, Draco wouldn't have picked up such a bad habit. He also rolled his eyes because Granger had made it so apparent she needed help—whether it be his or someone elses. The problem was, Draco partly wanted to help—he didn't even know why. All he knew with confidence was that he felt trapped; if he didn't ask her, he'd have to hear about it for the remainder of his night here—especially when she seemed to be the only one behind the counter. If he _did_ ask if she wanted his help, Granger would likely berate him for being nosy, and while Draco knew he couldn't win, he also didn't want to lose.

Not _with_ her.

"On the house," Granger said without any emotion, not even casting her eyes in his direction.

Draco slowly tilted his head, observing her as she turned away from him and lifted the pen from the spread out book beside the till.

"You know, Granger, I can pay—I have money."

"Employee discount," she shrugged, resting the pen against her lips.

Draco couldn't stop himself from noticing how pink they were tonight, how full they were around the end of her pen. He swallowed when he realised what he was doing, casting his eyes around the place to ensure no one had caught him.

"I don't work here, Granger."

She snorted, but it wasn't bitter—it wasn't really anything, except a noise. "You could have fooled me with your bossiness."

Applying a sneer, Draco straightened his spine. "Touché."

She laughed, and he hated how he liked the sound of it. He should hate it; she was a stuck-up know-it-all. She had ruined his jumper, after all. But Draco didn't, not even a little bit.

"I've never _had_ a discount before?"

Granger smirked, circling something on the notepad page she seemed to pull from nowhere. "Tonight you seemed like you needed it."

There wasn't anything he _could_ say. Not without complimenting her or showing gratitude, and he couldn't do that with Granger. He _couldn't,_ surely? Just as he hesitated, unsure whether a thank you would be enough, Draco heard her sigh. It was heavy, ladened with frustration and stress; he knew that sigh. Draco had let out that same sigh almost every day since he had been at Diagon.

Holding the cup between both hands, lifting his head, Draco cleared his throat. "I'm not the devil, even if I would look good in red, so thank you… for the coffee," he said, wanting to dispel the emotion in the air, hating how it felt bubbling around his skin. "Anyway, I have work to be doing myself, Granger, not all of us can study as tremendously as you, so, I will ask for a final time, are you okay?"

Whether it was the surprise of seeing Granger looking at him softly or the weird feeling he got in his stomach as she did, Draco felt himself shift into foreign waters. He knew, deep down, he didn't deserve the warmth in her eyes—it was all misplaced, it was all wrong, but most of all it wasn't justified.

"I think I'm going to fail my first year," she said, her bottom lip trembling and all Draco hoped was that she wasn't about to cry.

Thankfully, she didn't, but what Granger did instead was far more worrying. She let her head flop onto the book as her curls danced across the page, her hat falling to the floor, discarded and forgotten, and she let out a low, half-scream into the pages.

Draco's attention, however, was stolen, quickly captured by her wild curls. Not frizzy like usual and rather bouncy—as though they were full of life. He admired how they had haloed around her as the lights caught the many shades that made each one up; Draco noticed her hands planted either side of her hidden face, and as she turned her head her complexion became more obvious against the backdrop of the crisp pages.

Draco hesitated, words lodging in his throat as his hand reached out, freezing in the moment, stuck between not wanting to overstep and wanting to comfort her. He decided words might be better received, retracting his hand and clearing his throat.

"From the _Granger_ , I've seen, that's impossible."

"It-really-isn't," she mumbled as her head turned face down into the book once more, her words buried under her hair.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, ensuring it was loud enough for her to hear, Draco stood up as he moved closer towards her. At first, he slid his cup from between them, then he tapped her head, and finally, Draco slid her books away from her. He placed them neatly beside his own, balancing on a high rope knowing if he didn't choose his next step carefully, he'd fall to his demise.

His first instinct was to comfort her, but after several failed attempts with Pansy over the years, Draco supposed he needed a better strategy. He could give her advice, although there was nothing Draco despised _more_ than giving advice—except when women cried. And it was likely she would cry. Even more likely as he stood awkwardly before her, not saying anything.

And Draco did not want a crying Granger; not on his watch, not as _his_ responsibility.

The problem Draco faced was that he only had a _handful_ of experiences with crying women, and most of them were Pansy—and most of them had ended with a knee to his crotch. He didn't do well, always saying the wrong thing. Apparently, he missed the sensitivity gene, which wasn't surprising; he was his father's son.

"Stand up, Granger," he said plainly, finding himself surprised when she did. "You need to pass; that is it. You pass, you're onto the next level. You fail, you redo. Simple as. For once, you don't need to excel; you can just pass."

While not explicitly crying, there were tears in her eyes. Huge, eye-shimmering tears and he already felt the threat of a hug or a punch coming his way.

"Plus, it's December. You've been here barely a minute, haven't you?" Granger shrugged, and he smirked knowingly. "As someone who hasn't attended a class in a week, I assure you, you're going to be _fine_."

She frowned deeply, and he braced for an array of questions. "Why haven't you attended?"

 _Because I'm only attending this university to appease my father._ Draco didn't say that, though. Instead he sighed, shaking the truth from his lips. "Better things to do, Granger. Better things to do."

* * *

It turned out, after his pep-talk, that Draco had actually done the right thing. Thankfully though, not long after Moody had turned up to take over from Granger—the fact her eyes could barely stay open, Draco thought it was a good decision on Moody's part. It had also eliminated the _awkwardness_ , the part where she'd look at him questioning, wondering why he had been _so_ nice and him not being able to give her an adequate answer. Moody, it seemed, was rather convenient in a crisis, something Draco wouldn't tell him for love or money.

Granger, it became apparent, had been so sleep-deprived—and possibly so stressed—she didn't leave with her books. The ones Draco had taken from her when she had begun her little meltdown. He hadn't thought of taking her things, not at first, but Moody had stamped his walking stick into the coffee shop floor and gave him a knowing look. One Draco would rather never see again.

Even as Draco climbed in the Owler—the Diagon run taxi service—he wondered what on earth he was doing. He thought the same when the driver stopped outside her building, cursing himself as he stepped outside after paying. He then began to blame Moody for being outside her flat door. The _apparent flat_ that Granger would likely be sleeping inside of, with her long curls and brown eyes. The other problem was, Moody—the dick he was—hadn't given Draco the flat number. He had been forced to ask some people on the ground floor who directed him to this door.

To his unsurprise, Granger didn't answer the door; a flame-haired woman did instead. A woman who looked as though she would rather spit on him than speak to him.

"Hi, does Granger live here?"

The red-haired female smirked, folding her arms across her chest as she looked him up and down. "Ah, _Malfoy_ is it?"

Draco licked his lips before grinning. " _Famous_ am I?"

The female shrugged, tilting her head to the other side as she narrowed her eyes. "Something to that effect. Are you _also_ a stalker?"

He pursed his lips because he could tell this woman this entire story, but Draco suspected it wouldn't do him any favours. He had, technically, been visiting the coffee shop when Granger was working, and he had arrived at the library after her that time, and now he was, possibly, stood outside her door. So even if he disputed being a stalker, there was a lot of evidence stacked against him.

"Wouldn't be the worst thing I've been called, _Red_ , but on this occasion, more a knight in shining armour." He handed over the book, tapping his finger to the sticker that said: _Belongs to H. Granger_. "It seems _Granger_ likes the idea of random men returning books to her door."

"I'm Ginny," Red said, sticking her hand out as she smirked. "Best friend, knight slayer, you name it."

Figuring he had little to lose, Draco shook her hand, finding it a welcomed surprise that her grip was strong. "Draco, Latin for _dragon_ , but obviously without fire."

She looked him up and down once again, this time without the stink-eye she had first given him. "Oh, you seem like you have _plenty_ of fire—where it counts." Draco didn't hide the sneer that spread over his face. "Especially since you have a _lack_ of patience." His face dropped. "I'm her best friend, _fool_. Stop torturing my friend."

Draco stood defiantly. "Or what… you'll slay me?"

Red—or Ginny—put down the book on something hidden inside the door, before returning her eyes to him. They were a lot sharper—he half-wished she went back to flirting—as though she had hardened them somehow. He could feel her eyes piercing into his skin, and if Draco weren't so scared, he'd likely be turned on.

"No, because I'll make _your_ life a living _hell_. I know _you, and_ I've met people _like_ you. I've also grown up with six brothers, so in a way, I really dare _you_ to try me." Red straightened her shoulders. "Also, because of the brothers, I have a mean right hook, so if you're going to hover around her, at least _make_ it worth her while. Don't be an arsehole, just to be an arsehole, Malfoy. Be better than your low-life, back-stabbing, bribery taking dad."

He didn't show how much the last comment hurt. Although he had to agree with everything she said, it just wasn't something he had expected. Instead of giving her the satisfaction, Draco painted a smile over his lips, watching her as she eyed him suspiciously.

"I like you, Red."

Red arched her brow. "Because I'm _direct_ and you've taken in what I've said?"

He shrugged again, and he could sense it displeased her when he did.

"Because you _don't_ tolerate bullshit, actually. Anyway, just tell Granger not to leave her valuables at the shop; anyone could have taken it." He had been set to storm off, but at the last second, he turned back around, finding Red watching him as though she knew he would. "Also, make sure she gets some sleep, don't let her worry, and for fuck sake take her books off of her sometime. She needs to relax."

He tugged down on his jumper, nodding his head before turning away from the door, eyes focused on the stairwell. There was a rush of something he couldn't place, happiness, satisfaction—Draco didn't know—but just as he neared the corner. Just as Draco thought he was out of the woods, he heard Red speak again.

"Anyone _could_ have taken her things, Malfoy, but that anyone was _you_."

Draco turned quickly, looking at the door as he watched it close. He was in half a mind to bolt back up to the door and bang his fist against it, but if Draco was honest, he didn't know what to even make of what she had said. It was true, he was the only one who had taken her things—and the only one to return them.

He had done something so out of character, so impossibly Draco, he had no idea what it meant.

All he did know was that he didn't like Granger, not like that. He didn't. He was sure of it. But as he rushed down the stairs, desperate for fresh air, Draco wasn't sure he even believed himself.

Not _sure_ at all.

* * *

 


	7. vii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow update, I hope this makes up for it! (:  
> Life happened, but I'm feeling a bit better.

Hermione didn't know where she stood with Draco Malfoy.

It wasn't the first thought she woke with. She hadn't even paid Malfoy any attention or thought when she first rose from her bed. He didn't cross her mind unless she crossed her path, well, except when she woke from one of those dreams, but they were rare.

However, she found she couldn't stop thinking about him after speaking to Ginny.

Before that, it had been a typical morning. Hermione had woken to find her hair tangled, her breath not tasting so good, and a spot on her chin. Her favourite t-shirt having not been washed, and once again, she had misplaced another book.

Rubbing her eyes as she entered the shared living room, seeing a gleeful Ginny turning her book in her hand as she sipped tea had to be the most unexpected thing she had seen. And Hermione had dated Ginny's brother. The sight trumped quickly by the words that left her friends lips next:

"Malfoy brought your book home."

Hermione initially laughed, all sharpness and ridicule, hand gripping her side until she realised Ginny _hadn't_ joined in, and she looked a little psychotic.

"You… _excuse_ me?"

Ginny smirked as though all her Christmas' had come at once. "I _said,_ Malfoy returned your book home—something about you leaving it, and wanting to be decent. Well, he didn't say _be decent_ , but it's all about reading between the lines with things like this. Don't you agree?"

Hermione wanted to say she didn't, not at all, but words didn't seem to be arriving at her lips as quickly as they usually did. She felt too flummoxed to force it, trying to scrape her memories to find why he would have her book to begin with and what it must look like.

"I must have—"

"He said you need to sleep more," Ginny said with a wicked smile as she swirled the liquid in her mug. "I also need to _take your books off you once in a while."_

Hermione resisted the urge to smile because this was Malfoy. A man who didn't say kind things. Someone who wouldn't have said that to Ginny. The only logical explanation was that Ginny had chosen to read between the lines once more. Nothing else seemed reasonable. Not to Hermione. Because without it being logical, and if what Ginny said was right, it would make _everything_ very confusing.

Including the way Malfoy had _actually_ been kind to her before she had even left her things behind.

And, if Hermione was honest, if this new information was correct, it made her current relationship with him confusing, and Hermione Granger did not like confusing things.

Usually, when things confused her, she would study—purchasing books from Amazon or raiding libraries until she became a renowned intellect in it. But there were no books in Draco Malfoy—or ones that would be useful. No essays on him or things she could learn about him. Both loved and hated by the internet—more to do with his father than anything else—there was _nothing_ she could do it wrap her head around it.

**She** turned the book in her hand, the one he had come to her place to return. The one her head had been in the night before; the one his fingers had handed to her friend.

Draco Malfoy had returned _her_ book.

The arsehole who made her life hell on her first shift. The git who kicked her out of the library. The fucker who laughed at her and reminded her of every school bully she had at school.

But, he had returned her book.

He had shown generosity, _kindness_. Two things she hadn't been sure he could possess never mind show. She didn't want to allow herself to think that she was wrong, because Hermione Granger was never mistaken, but the current evidence happened to be stacked against her.

* * *

Granger was ridiculous.

This wasn't a statement but a proven fact. Everything Granger had done since beginning her shift had been a monumental fuck up. To start with, she almost burned herself, tipping boiling water down her apron and onto the floor. Secondly, she had attempted to place a muffin in a takeaway bag, only to drop it on the floor and then stand on it. Every customer, there was something she did, and each time she performed the comical mistake, Draco found her eyes on him.

He couldn't understand why. Even when Granger saw him, she paused, as though she hadn't expected him to be there. In the same place, he always was, at the usual time. Draco was a creature of habit, and because of that, had stared back at her, mirroring her stare until she broke it, and left to hang her bag up.

Draco tried to pay her no attention, furiously typing on his laptop as he hoped to finish his project. He barely noticed the sky turning dark; the once loud voices trickle to silence, his focus was on the assignment, the one he had been attempting to work on all week. His blood had become more coffee than anything else, his brain fried over charts and words he had needed to Google, and he only found himself not staring at the screen each time she yelped.

The last one was the worst of them all.

"Bugger," Granger winced, gripping hold of a nearby chair as the mop that had been in her hand did a dramatic slam to the floor.

Quickly, Draco glanced around, wondering if anyone else wished to be Superman, or whether the position had been left to him. Life seemed to be having a humorous night as he was the only customer left in the coffee shop.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Draco twisted on the stool. "Granger?"

"I'm fine," she said sharply, not meeting his eye as her head remained bent down.

If only he could believe her. He watched as she tried to bend down, wincing as silently as she could to pick it up as he stepped down to the floor.

"Give it here, Granger."

Her reluctance was evident, although he could understand why. She observed him, studied his face as though she'd learn what was driving him. Draco wanted to laugh, the expression not suiting her in her current position, but he refrained, only for the fact he didn't fancy the rounder end being shoved somewhere it didn't belong.

Sighing, Granger handed the mop over to him as Draco rested it against the chair, her face screwed up as though unsure of his motives. Although, if Draco was honest, he wasn't entirely sure what his were, he didn't even understand why he was being nice. The old Draco, the one he had known before seeing Severus, would have placed headphones on and ignored the wincing of a woman in pain. Now, after the pain he had seen his mother in, Draco suspected his senses had sharpened to that particular sound, not even wishing his enemy to ever be in pain anymore.

Tilting his head, trying to see where the pain was coming from. "Are you able to put weight on it?"

"Of _course_ , I am."

Draco smirked, folding his arms. "Prove it then, _Granger_."

Her chin jutted as she pushed herself up until she straightened. Draco could say many things about her, but Granger wasn't one to give up easily. He watched as she grimaced, hissing through her teeth rather than admit she was hurt.

Draco, being Draco, tried not to be smug, not precisely enjoying watching her struggle on one leg as she eased the other down. Granger met his eyes as she placed her weight over her two feet before he noticed her knees begin to shake, and Draco, instinctively and quickly, reached out as he took her waist.

Even if he wanted to avoid them, his eyes met hers. Although it was brief, a second in a bunch of moments, he knew he would never forget the shape of them or how they brightened when he held her a little more purposefully.

Swiftly, Draco eased her into a nearby chair, kicking it out before helping her settle down into it. He had needed to break from her stare; the air had become difficult to breathe as it thickened comfortably around them. Draco didn't do comfort; he didn't understand comfort.

"I'm just going to raise your foot, Granger."

He bent down, pulling up another chair as he helped bring her leg up onto it, moving her slowly, cautiously, not wishing to hear her wince again.

For a second, she remained still, but Draco knew what was coming before it did. "I _can't_ just sit here, I need to mop, and I need too—"

"Well, you _clearly_ can't mop." She shot him a glare as he rolled his eyes. "I meant you currently are unable to in your present condition. I wasn't, for once, insulting your mopping skills, Granger."

Her eyes eased, and he sighed heavily—more from annoyance and the shrillness of her voice than anything else.

"I really don't wish to lose my job, Draco."

The use of his name seemed to soften him, and without a moment to think, he took the mop in hands. "Fine, but you tell no one."

He rested it against his chest, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt before running his hand through his hair, moving any stray pieces from his face. Draco didn't miss how Granger's mouth had fallen open as he slid the bucket closer to him; he also didn't mistake the flutter in his chest when he noticed the smile growing over her face.

She licked her lips, and he hated how he was watching. "Do you even _know_ how to mop? Didn't you have servants who did such menial tasks for you?"

Draco considered her question, tilting his head as he smirked. "I did, _yes_. But, I also did watch them Granger; someone had to make sure those menial jobs were done to the highest standard."

He knows she isn't sure whether to believe him, believes he is being completely serious. Draco shook his head, twisting the mop in the drainer of the bucket before beginning to clean the floor.

Even if he had been that privileged to have servants, and not one single housekeeper who lived in the estate, Draco would _never_ watch them. He wouldn't assert his power that way, even if he had been a smug prick at school. Draco wasn't his _father,_ something he wished she'd have thought initially.

"I'm kidding, Granger," he added, visibly noticing her sigh in relief. "I watched a Youtube video."

He wrung the mop out in the bucket, offering a wink as the air was met with a laugh, sweet and soft—a sound that didn't truly fit her. Not that Draco knew much about her.

"How are you getting home, Granger?"

Her brow arched, and he realised how un-Draco his tone had been when he asked. It sounded full of concern, as though he cared.

"Well, I _was_ thinking of flying home on that mop you were using."

Smirking, Draco rested the mop and bucket against the counter. "After you've told me what else you need to do before your shift ends, I'll help you get home."

* * *

_Knight Cars_ was a service that Draco had _never_ used. For one, they weren't comfortable, their drivers too chatty, and the people that used them were not the sort he wished to be associated with.

A long time ago, when he lived with his parents, the car service his father had hired had become the norm for him. He liked the silence, the awkwardness that came with his a chauffeur. It's why ever since he had attempted to put space between his parents, Draco had never used a car service of any kind. He either walked or, if the place was further, drove the deathtrap he had purchased when he had first moved out.

Tonight, though, there was no way he was going to carry Granger on his back and walk the distance to her place. For one, she could weigh more than she looked; secondly, she appeared to be a fidgeter, and he wasn't in the most patient mood to be dealing with that. Thirdly, and finally, Draco wasn't as strong as he appeared. His muscles were gifted to him by his genes, rather than carved into him from owning a gym membership.

Draco opened the taxi door, holding his hand out to her as she smirked. "I'll come with you. Just to make sure you get home safely. Because of the ankle, of course."

Hermione smiled, taking his hand as she hobbled to the car weakly. "Oh. _Of course._ "

His attempt at ignoring how awkward it was, only seemed to worsen it. The strange silence he usually preferred seemed piercing, annoying. Draco suspected with her by his side that it became odder, as though the two of them were supposed to interact as though they had always known one another. It was, what he assumed, the usual for people who chose to share a backseat.

Draco turned his attention out of the window as the car turned a corner. He noticed how the street lamps shimmered off the floor, causing Draco to wonder how he hadn't known it had rained. He hadn't even expected it too, having not brought his umbrella out with him.

"So, how's your course going?"

He cleared his throat, letting a restricted sigh past his lips. "It's as well as it can be."

Granger, for her sins, seemed not to want their conversation to end. He could feel her eyes watching him, her brain simmering under all the hair to work him out, to unpick him. If only she knew what was at the end of that thread.

"You, Granger?"

The moment he asked, he wished he hadn't.

Draco listened to a four minute and twenty-nine-second discussion about how Granger wasn't doing as well as she had expected, but not worryingly bad enough for her lecturer to be disappointed. At certain times, Draco even caught the eye of the driver, who appeared as though he pitied him.

He had nodded when he was supposed to, drifted off into his mind when he knew he could be allowed to, and returned briefly to catch the end of the conversation. Although, Draco half-wished he hadn't when Granger asked him another question, prompting him, expecting him to give her a long answer like she had just given.

"So, is your father still practising?"

Draco tensed, his stomach knotting as though his body had been electrocuted. "What has that got to do with anything, Granger?"

It left his lips as bitter as he intended, wanting to signify how unnecessary it was to ask him, how much he'd rather not talk about it. From the look on her face, and the tension suddenly blooming around her, Granger hadn't picked up on that. If anything, she seemed angry at him for now bowing to her question.

"Well, he's your father, which has something to do with you, and I, stupidly, assumed we were getting to know one another."

Draco growled under his breath, shooting her a look before turning to face forward. "Whatever you think you know about me, whatever assumption you've made because of who raised me, you are wrong, Granger. You don't know everything about me, because, _surprise surprise_ , not everything can be learnt about someone from reading. Or, in your case, magazines."

If Draco had been intending to offend her, he did just that. Although, that hadn't been his intent. If anything, Draco had just wanted to close the conversation, turn the page and begin the next chapter, and yet, like all good stories, Draco suspected his father would be a running theme that would continue to appear until the final chapters.

Granger had clamped her mouth shut, turning her head before her cheeks give her away. Draco, however, had already noted their rosiness, the fact her hair had suddenly become thicker as though the heat from her cheeks had forced it to grow.

Thankfully for all, the car stopped, the driver turning to face them as Hermione attempted to grab her bag awkwardly, not realising that somehow Draco had his foot stuck inside the strap.

As she tugged, and he winced, Draco pulled out his wallet as he shot her a sharp look. "I've got it, _Granger_."

No sooner had he paid, he was outside the car, not even attempting to move quickly to her side to help her out. Instead, Draco let out a heavy breath, walking around the back of the car slowly, purposefully, before he opened it for her, retrieving her hand to help her out. Understandably, Granger hadn't healed in the short ride to her place, and as she struggled, he placed his hand on her waist to steady her, some of his anger disappearing at the touch.

She was bizarre—all of her. On the one hand, she was infuriating, worse than challenging, but on the other, she was interesting and remarkably not as bad as she had first appeared. Even her coffee making skills had improved.

Granger, though, appeared nervous, cheeks pink and her eyes watching him as he continued to hold her side. "I… um, I texted Ginny. She'll be down in a second."

He nodded, helping her up onto the pavement as he shut the door, tapping the back of the vehicle before letting the car drive off.

"Thank you… for _tonight_ , Draco."

He swallowed, his name sounding softer than he had expected from her lips. "Draco, _huh_?"

Her smile blossomed, and he hated how much he liked it. How it suited her, softened her features and made her eyes twinkle. Being this close, he could notice the shades that danced in the brown of them, how there were flecks of gold and green, mystifying him from knowing her shade exactly.

She placed her hand on his elbow, a simple but obvious touch. "Yes," she nodded, "you'll have to call me, Hermione."

"I don't think so," Draco smirked playfully, "doesn't sound right."

Granger tilted her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "You know it's my name," she laughed.

Draco shrugged, set to argue about the fact her surname was also her name when he felt her lips suddenly press against his cheek. All his thoughts, the snark that had been set to appear, fizzled to nothing. His focus only on her presence, how long she lingered with her lips against his skin, how soft she was, how sweet she appeared under the moonlight and stars.

In a second, Granger had retreated, leaving him with her perfume staining his nose, mouth bruised with her touch as she left him forever touched by her.

"Thank you," she said again as Draco looked over his shoulder, Ginny smirking as she moved towards them, nodding in his direction.

Draco Malfoy didn't know what to think about Hermione Granger.

**Author's Note:**

> Find Me On Tumblr: [jlpierre](https://jlpierre.tumblr.com)  
> Or on Facebook at [jlpierre](https://www.facebook.com/jlpierrewriter/)  
> 


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